


World's Forgotten Boys

by sonofabiscuit77



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst Dean Winchester, Angst Sam Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Issues, Demonic Possession, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Jealousy, Long, M/M, Multi, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sibling Incest, Third Winchester brother, Threesome - M/M/M, Wincest - Freeform, Work In Progress, brother issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-03-11
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:03:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 255,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabiscuit77/pseuds/sonofabiscuit77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ross Winchester knows three things to be true: his father, John, is a hero; he’s going to be the best hunter in the goddamn world; and his two older brothers are in love with each other. An AU-version of seasons one and two where the Winchester Brothers mean Dean and Sam and Ross, where John is still missing, where Mary and Jess are still dead, and where Dean and Sam are still obsessed with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Everything changes when Sam sees the car. He spots it on his way home from work, fingers smelling of bleach and deep fat fryers, skin soaked with grease and eyes tired. It’s the worst possible timing in the entire world, but then, when did his family ever care about timing?

He pauses by the car, hand hovering over the roof, as if he’s scared to touch, to truly feel it under his fingers, and he can feel his breath getting shorter, lungs, heart, nervous system switching into adrenalin mode. There’s a part of him that was always half expecting to round the corner of the street and see this car, sitting there, as black and sleek as an apocalyptic omen.

He shakes his head, inwardly chastising himself for being so dramatic. He blinks a couple of times, but the car doesn’t vanish like it does when he wakes in the middle of the night with Dean’s voice still echoing around his head, the sensation of lying across the backseat and tussling with Ross for space still tingling against his skin. He fists his fingers tighter around the handle of his bag, pushes his greasy hair off his face and turns to enter the apartment building. If they’re around, if they’re all really and truly here and he’s not just hallucinating the car, then they’re gonna be up there. With Jess.

He hears their voices as he unlocks the door, and his chest aches, he’s not ready for this, really, so not ready for this. He’s thought about it, but this – having them just show up in the middle of the day, making nice with Jess while he’s working his shift at the diner – that’s not the way he’s imagined it. This is too prosaic, too normal, too un-Dean to be real. Dean would break into his house; appear in the middle of the night with a bleeding gash up his entire left side, Ross hanging off his arm with a broken ankle, but this…

He can hear the familiar, low, gruff tones of Dean’s voice, Ross’s slightly higher voice, that annoying, ingratiating laugh of his mixing in with Jess’s giggles. He pauses with his hand on the latch, trying to think this through, thoughts swishing through his mind. At least, if they’re laughing then neither of them is hurt, which just begs the question: why are they here? It’s been two years. Why now?

He exhales heavily and opens the door. The voices immediately die down, and he feels like an intruder as he pads into the crowded kitchen. They’re sitting at the kitchen table, Dean and Ross taking up way too much space in the small kitchen. The kitchen table is pulled out from against the wall in a way Sam can’t remember it being since that end of mid-terms party they held a few months back. Then it was being used to hold Jess’s homemade punch, saucepans full of chips and saucers of dip. Now it’s covered in crumbs of what he suspects were once Jess’s home-baked cookies, all devoured of course, because they never would’ve stood a chance against Dean and Ross’s cavernous stomachs.

“Hey, Sammy,” says Dean, swinging his chair around to look at him. Dean’s voice is completely casual, as if Sam just went out for a coffee. Nothing in his tone to make anyone suspect that they haven't spoken for two years and change.

Beside Dean, Ross twists around in his chair and regards him coolly. “Hey, Sammy, did you miss us?”

“Ross, Dean," he says at last.

“In the flesh,” says Dean with a smirk.

He should’ve been prepared for this. After all, this was what he was expecting when he saw the car. But, they’re both… God, they’re both so exactly the same. Admittedly, they look older – Ross, particularly, but then Ross was only seventeen when he left.

“Hey, honey,” says Jess with a smile, forcing him to tear his eyes away from Dean and Ross. “I baked you cookies but…” she spreads her hand, laughs, “someone ate them.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, man,” Dean shrugs, gifting Sam with one of those enormous, completely fake grins of his, “s’all my fault. But, in my defense, they were some pretty awesome cookies. Couldn’t resist.” He cocks a wink Jess’s way. She smiles indulgently and shakes her head at him. And it’s so much like every fucking bar and every fucking Dean pick-up Sam can remember that he's already rolling his eyes, a prickly irritation itching up his spine that’s not at all dented by the smug look on Ross’s face.

He grits his teeth, says, “So, uh, what the hell’re you two doing here?”

“Thought we’d take you out for a beer,” says Dean, still with the loose fake smile. “Just passing through, and all that.”

Bullshit, Sam thinks immediately, bullshit.

He glances at Ross, sees Ross’s mouth crook, a private joke. He feels another tidal rise of bitterness and snaps, “Really? So, he drinking now?” A nod towards Ross.

Ross narrows his eyes, “Hey, fuck you, dude, I’ve been drinkin’ since I was twelve years old. And you fuckin’ know it.”

Sam snorts, “Right.”

Ross makes a face, and for a moment, Sam feels like he’s eleven again, the urge to stick his tongue out at Ross or pull him into a painful headlock overwhelming. He’s regressing with every minute they’re here.

He can see Jess’s face out of the corner of his eye, her expression confused and surprised as she looks between the three of them. Jess hasn’t seen this side of him, this side that only Dean and Ross, God, especially Ross, can bring out.

Dean coughs, still half-grinning, as if he’s been enjoying his and Ross’s mini-spat, and he probably has. “Hey, I need to speak to you about something. Private family business.”

Sam looks at him, holds his eye for a moment, before he glances across at Jess whose still regarding them curiously, that crease between her eyebrows.

“Anything you wanna say to me, you can say in front of Jessica,” he says. He crosses to stand by her, drapes one arm around her shoulders, telegraphing their solidarity. This is his life now: he and Jess, whatever memory lane shit he's about to confront, he's not doing it without her.

Dean shrugs, “Okay. Dad hasn’t been home in a few days.”

His eyes are all for Sam now, boring into him, crawling under his skin. This has always been Dean’s way, getting into him, invading him, underneath and on top and in between and through and through, and for a second, there’s nothing else, Ross and Jess rubbed out, only him and Dean and this suddenly unfamiliar apartment.

He blinks and the feeling vanishe. A look flickers across Dean’s face, and he feels like he’s failed something.

“So, he’s probably working overtime on a Miller time shift,” he says.

Dean raises his eyes again, mouth set, voice deeper, more serious. “No, Dad’s on a huntin’ trip and he hasn’t been home in few days.”

There’s a silent plea there this time, Sam feels himself shrink away from Jess, his arm suddenly heavy around her shoulders, ostentatious and fake. He glances at Ross, but Ross’s eyes are fixated on Dean too, his eyebrows knotted together and brow furrowed and that – that look - that’s Dad. Ross was always the one who looked most like Dad. Sam looks away, nods, “Okay, well, uh. Jess, do you mind if we...? We'll go outside.”

They go out to the Impala, not speaking as they take the quick route down the fire escape. Outside, Dean leans up against the car, resting one arm on the roof as he regards Sam, eyes running up and down his body, drinking him in in a way that makes Sam feel uncomfortable, like his skin’s too tight.

“How you been?” asks Dean after a long, loaded moment.

Sam nods, doesn’t meet Dean’s eye, keeps nodding, says, “Uh, good, yeah, real good. Jess is – she’s great.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, “she’s something alright.”

“Hey, that’s my girlfriend you’re perving over.”

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” sighs Dean, “I’m just surprised is all, never thought you’d be able to land yourself such a hot piece of ass! I’m impressed. Seriously, dude, impressed. And those cookies – man, fuckin’ amazing.” He smirks, that half-assed leer of his that immediately breaks the tension, has Sam reaching out to punch him on the arm while Dean chuckles dirtily.

Sam laughs, he can’t help it, and for a second, he feels lighter, happier. He’d forgotten this part – this part of being with Dean – the easy familiarity, Dean’s teasing grossness, he feels a sudden flash of affection for him. “Jesus, Dean,” he groans, “it’s a wonder you ever get laid.”

“Hey, I do alright,” retorts Dean, smirk still in place. They stare at each other for what seems like a long time, before Dean speaks again, smirk falling away, and that serious, big-brother look inching across his face. “And you care about her, right?” This is the other part of Dean he remembers, the fierce protectiveness, that cold-eyed, unrepentent side of his that had him breaking three of Joey Barton's ribs when he called Sam a faggot in ninth grade. But Dean doesn't need to worry now, if there’s one thing Sam is certain about, then it's Jess.

“Yeah, I do,” he says.

A small muscle at Dean’s jaw twitches and he ducks his head, hiding his expression from Sam. “Good,” he says, and his voice sounds strange, choked, “that’s, uh, that’s good, man. Long as things are going good for you.”

Neither of them say anything for a moment. Dean crosses his arms on the roof of the car, resting his chin on them, staring at something across the street. Sam looks away from him, towards the other end of the road, watches the 43 bus pull in at his usual bus-stop, students and office workers tumbling out onto the sidewalk.

“What about you?" he asks finally, breaking the silence. "You and Ross? How have you been?”

Dean finally raises his head, turns to look at him. He catches Sam’s eye and grins suddenly, huge and wide and dazzling. Sam swallows, wanting to take a step back, feeling like he’s just been smacked in the chest.

“Yeah, you know, dude, usual shit. You know Littlest Bro.”

“Yeah,” Sam answers darkly, “unfortunately.”

Dean laughs and Sam feels the uncomfortable tightness begin to unravel inside him, awkwardness vanishing. He turns, places one hand on the car, inches form Dean's crossed arms, feeling the warmth where the sun has been slowing baking the metal. He glances sideways, at Dean, and sees that his brother's eyes are on him again, a curious, contemplative twist to his mouth.

He blinks, says, “So, what’s this really about? What’s really going on here?”

“Like I said, Sammy, Dad’s missing. We haven’t heard from him in more than two weeks.”

“Dean, c’mon, man, you don’t need me to help find Dad,” Sam tells him. “You and Ross can find him okay on your own.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” sighs Dean. He pulls away from the car, ducks his head, not meeting Sam’s eyes. He sounds unsure, he sounds older than Sam remembers, hell, he is older. There are fine lines grooved into the edges of Dean’s eyes. Dean’s 26 and he looks older, the bright California sun not doing him any favors. He remembers his Dad, drunk one night: _This life, Sammy, it wears you down, wears you down before you’re ready._

“But I don’t want to,” adds Dean.

 

**

 

Sam packs his duffle quickly, as Jess looks on, that crease still between her eyebrows. She looks confused, and he knows he’s being a bad boyfriend, not explaining, or telling her the truth, not just why Dean and Ross are here, but all of it, the truth about his family, about what they do.

“So, your Dad – does he do this a lot?” she asks.

“What? Go off on his own without telling us when he’s gonna be back? Yeah, he does.”

She frowns. “And that’s why you’re not – why you don’t talk any longer?”

“One of the many reasons,” he answers. “But, Jess, baby, it’s complicated…”

She twists around in her position on the bed, running one hand over the shirts he’s discarded. “Sam, you can tell me. Now that I’ve met your brothers.”

He snorts, and she cocks her head at him, that soft fond smile playing over the corner of her mouth. “What?” she protests. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he says hastily, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. “Just – I’m sorry you had to deal with them on your own. I know how they can be.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says primly, “they were both perfect gentlemen.”

He snorts again and she shakes her head, grinning widely at him. He bends down, scoops his duffle onto his shoulder, glancing around the room for anything he’s forgotten. He stands by the bedroom door as she blows him a kiss. When he leaves the apartment, he hears her call after him.

“I’m letting you get away with this for now, but when you’re back, we’re gonna talk, Sam Winchester!”

He goes out to the car. Dean’s around the front, head under the hood, filling the radiator while Ross is… hell, he’s not even sure. The sound of the back door slamming shut above him makes him turn around and look up. He watches Ross come clomping down the fire escape, boots thump-thumping on the metal stairs, holding a huge bag of snacks in one hand and Jess’s flower-patterned thermos flask in the other.

“Your girlfriend likes me,” he tells Sam with a smirk. "She gave me coffee. And snacks.”

“Give that here,” orders Dean, dropping the hood. He comes round the side of the car, grabs the flask from Ross’s outstretched hand. He takes a long swig, makes a face.

“Where’s the goddamned sugar?”

Ross grins, pries the thermos back out of Dean’s hand. “You gotta learn to take your coffee like a man, big bro.”

“Fuck off,” snorts Dean.

Ross laughs, slings the bag of snacks through the open passenger side window. He spins around and gives Sam a considering look.

“Shotgun,” he says, the word coming off cool and deliberate on his lips.

He gets in the car, cranks down the window, leans out to smirk Sam. “That means you’re in the back, Sammy.”

Sam scowls at him. “It’s Sam.” He raises his eyes to Dean, but he’s smirking too, laughing at their pain in the ass little brother.

“Dude, you know the rule.”

It’s pointless fighting about it; he knows how useless that would be. He presses his lips together and sighs inwardly. Wherever the hell they’re going, it’s gonna be a long drive.

Dean looks at him again, jerks his head towards the trunk. “C’mere, I got something to show you. Something for your big brain to chew on.”

He watches Dean pop the trunk and prop up the false bottom with the damaged sawed-off that always lived in there for that purpose. He’s seen Dean do this hundreds of times before, and it makes him feel warm, a flood of familiarity and affection as he watches Dean bend over the trunk, rooting about amongst the weapons, rock salt, duffels, old clothes and screwed up paper. Dean emerges with a triumphant look, a snap of a grin Sam’s way as he hands over some crumpled sheets of paper.

“What’s this?”

“What Dad was working on before he disappeared. I figure, if we head down to, uh,” he glances down at the notes, “Jericho, we can get on his trail.”

“Okay, sure. But one thing I don’t get – why weren’t you two with him when he disappeared?”

Dean shrugs. “We were working our own gig. Down in New Orleans. Voodoo thing. I’ll have to tell you about it some time. Man, that shit was fucked up.”

“What? So, you and Ross – you hunt without Dad?”

“Yeah, that’s right. He usually calls every coupla days to check in with us. Compare notes. You know what he’s like. But this time…” he breaks off and Sam can see it now: the anxiety bunching into the tight corners of his face, the self-deprecating curl to his mouth as he meets Sam’s gaze. “Like I told you, man, something’s wrong, it’s never been this long.” His voice sounds flat, matter-of-factness hiding obvious concern.

“Dean, hey, _hey_ , Dean.” He grabs onto Dean’s arm before he knows it, fingers curling around worn leather. “It’ll be alright, we’ll find him.”

Dean presses his lips together and nods awkwardly, his gaze sliding down to linger over Sam’s hand, on the spot where it’s holding onto him. He raises his eyes, licks his lips. “Sam…” he says, low and unsure.

“Jesus. Are you two fuckin’ done yet?”

Ross’s voice snaps them awake, snaps the moment away, their youngest brother’s head half-way out the passenger side window. Dean pulls away abruptly, stalks to the driver’s side door, carefully not looking at Sam, a tight shape to his shoulders as he yanks the door open. Sam clenches his teeth; he slams the trunk closed, car rocking under the impact. Ross is still looking at him, an accusatory set to his jaw.

“What?” he demands.

Ross smirks, and there it is again: that oh-so-familiar urge to smack him upside the head. “Nothin’. Just waiting for you, Sammy.”

 

***

 

It’s kinda freaking Ross out that, even after two years without Sam, things go back to normal almost, like, immediately. Despite the time apart, there is something so irritatingly familiar about Sam. He’s just as stupidly big and tall as Ross remembers and he’s even got the same lame-ass haircut for fuck’s sake. He used to think that Sam kept his hair like that to piss off Dad, but Sam hasn’t seen Dad in over two years, so he must just like it. Freaking weirdo.

It was Dean’s idea to go after Sam, to include him in this hunt for Dad. They got to Palo Alto around mid-morning, pulling up on what Dean said was Sam’s street just when it was supposed to be quiet. Everyone was supposed to be at work, except that totally didn’t figure 'cause Sam lived in a student area and the entire fucking street was still lined with cars. In the end, Dean bitched and moaned and double-parked until some asshole in a Prius fucked off to work or college or hell, his freaking computer lab, and they finally managed to park the Impala just behind an enormous hybrid SUV. Ross didn’t even know they made hybrid SUV’s, fucking California.

He freaking hates this fake, shitty town with its snooty-ass incorporation bullshit, the massive, designed-to-make-you-feel-like-a-moron campus, and, oh yeah, all those goddamn rich-kid students crawling all over the fucking place. It wasn’t the first time they’d been there, hell, it wasn’t even the second. He’d kinda started to lose count after detour nos. four and five, but Dean would insist, mumble something about making sure Sammy was okay whenever a hunt just happened to take them anywhere near the California state line, and then there they were, fucking Palo Alto. Again.

They’d waited only about twenty minutes before they spotted Sam, coming back from a run with some hot blond chick wearing some seriously short-shorts, (the chick, not Sammy, cause... _eww_ ). Ross watched in rising disbelief as they came to a stop out the front of the apartment building, Sam leaning over to lay one on her, the two of them making out on the front steps like the cue-credits moment at the end of a shitty rom-com.

“No fuckin’ way,” he groaned out loud. “Like, no way is Sammy with her.”

On their previous visits, they’d always stalked Sam from afar, seeing him with friends (male and female), but never any sign of a girlfriend, and that – well, that tied into the version of Sam he was used to. Sam hadn’t dated in high school, was way too into homework and school clubs and fighting with Dad to ever show any interest in the opposite sex. Sure, he’d hung out with girls – as friends, though – never as horizontal buddies, so the idea that he was now tapping someone as hot as this girl appeared to be… man, that was, like, seriously screwed up. Sam and the girl broke apart and laughed, Sam reaching down to pat her on the ass, still laughing while she leaned into him and kissed his cheek – and it was all like he and Dean had just walked into fucking bizzaro-land.

Dean’s mouth twitched as he watched and gave a half-shrug, “Her name’s Jessica. They live together. Guess it’s serious.”

Ross’s eyes widened even further and he glared at Dean. “You knew about it? And you didn’t tell me?”

“Why the fuck would I tell you?” snapped Dean. He reached down and slid the hip flask out of that hiding place he had under the bench seat on the driver’s side.

Ross shook his head at him and watched Sam and his way-outta-his-league girlfriend fucking skip up the steps to the apartment building, hand in hand. God, it was way too early in the morning for this much freaking saccharine.

“I always thought Sammy only went for dudes,” he said thoughtfully, watching Dean carefully for any reaction as he took another sip. “I only remember him hooking up with dudes.”

Dean grunted, not rising to it, and shook a couple of cigarettes out of the pack he was hogging, tossing one into Ross’s lap which he seized gratefully. He’d run out about 200 miles ago and he was fucking dying for a smoke. They sat smoking, listening to the radio and passing the hipflask between them for about an hour before Sam finally left the apartment building, carrying a huge bag and a couple of textbooks under his arm, walking all hunched over with his hair falling over his face, just like he always used to.

“What a dork,” Dean commented quietly; though his voice was soft, a sort of fond edge to it. It made Ross frown and glance at him sideways.

Dean caught him looking of course and raised his eyebrows defensively. “What?”

Ross shrugged, unsure of what he wanted to say. Finally, Dean sighed and switched the radio off.

“Alright, you ready to rock ‘n’ roll?”

“Always.”

“Right,” Dean snorted. “Well, let’s go meet Sammy’s girl.”

 

**

 

Ross blinks his eyes open, gazes at his watch by the light of the dash. They’ve been going about three hours. He glances across at Dean; Dean’s eyes are locked on the blacktop, fingers tapping against the wheel in time to the music, but he looks happier, like he’s almost smiling. Ross watches him from the corner of his eye for a couple of minutes – it’s a trick he’s learned to perfect over the years – Dean never notices after a while. Dean’s driving as normal, but every few seconds he looks up, eyes drawn to the rearview mirror, drawn to Sam, who with his ginormous head and shoulders, must be practically blocking the entire rear window.

He fidgets in his seat, forcing Dean to look away from his endless contemplation of Sam and glance at him. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” he grunts.

Dean nods, tosses him a half-eaten Krispy Kreme from its congealed wrapper, “You wanna finish this?”

He eats it gratefully. Jess’s awesome cookies seem a long time ago now.

“Where did you say those people disappeared?” Sam asks suddenly from the backseat.

Dean looks up, glances in the mirror, says, “Jericho, there’s a bridge into town.”

“Huh, okay.”

There’s a rustling sound and something papery and sharp hits Ross in the back of his head. He turns around to see that Sam’s got some local roadmap stretched out across the entire backseat, taking up every inch of space.

“Dude,” Ross protests as Sam turns the map again, hitting him in the corner of the eye with the crinkled pages in the process. He bats it away, crumpling the paper, and Sam glares at him. “Can’t you, not, like, do that – later?”

“You wanna find Dad, or not?” retorts Sam, finally looking up and taking notice of him. He’s got that pissy, self-righteous look on his face that Ross remembers so freaking well, the one that could push him over the edge, every single fucking time.

“No, I’m hoping he’ll stay missing forever. What the fuck do you think, assmunch?”

Sam doesn’t say anything but fixes him with one of those trademark Sammy death-glares that again are such another fond memory from his childhood. For a moment, he’s kinda almost expecting Sam to squeal out: “Dee-een!” as he used to do when they were kids. But instead, it’s still with the freaky, annoying staring shit.

“What?” he demands. “What you lookin’ at?”

Sam smiles smugly and goes back to staring at the map. Ross grits his teeth and reaches to turn on the radio.

Dean slaps his hand away, “Nuh-uh, no radio.”

“Oh Jesus, Dean, we’ve listened to all the tapes, like, ten thousand freakin’ times.”

“No radio, kiddo. You know the rules.”

There’s a snort of laughter from the back, and Ross represses the urge to turn around and punch his middle brother in the face.

“You find anything?” Dean asks after five minutes of tense silence, staring into the driver's mirror with pursed lips.

“Maybe,” says Sam. “But I’m beat. Can we stop somewhere soon?”

“We’ll be in Jericho in two hours – can you wait that long?”

“Guess.”

Dean nods and puts his foot down.

 

Sam waits outside while Ross and Dean go into the clerk’s office to get the room. Ross can see him in the parking lot, leaning against the side of the Impala, still studying those fucking sheets Dean gave him. He turns around as the motel clerk limps from outta the back room, he’s an old guy with one of those old-guy, musty smells about him. Gross.

“Got any, uh, triples?” Dean asks as he slaps the credit card down on the counter.

The old dude gives him a look. “Triples? For three people?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers, like, duh.

“Well I don’t know about that, son. But I guess one of you could take the couch.”

“Fine. Whatever, that’ll do. Got any rooms like that?”

“Yeah. I got a twin with a couch.”

Dean goes silent for a moment before he gives the old dude one of his smart-assed smiles. “Well, could we have it?”

He slides the credit card over further and old guy takes it as he rings it up. Dean rolls his eyes, exchanging a look with Ross before he glances out the window at the parking lot again – at Sam.

“Aframium, you kids plannin’ on a reunion?” The old dude says to Ross, holding up the card.

“Huh?”

“What was that?” Dean’s head snaps back towards them, eyes narrowing.

“There was another guy, came by here a week ago, booked the room out for the month. Asked to be left alone. Aframium was his name too. You boys any relation?”

Dean turns to look at Ross, his eyebrows are raised and there’s a hopeful look on his face which makes Ross want to smile – something he hasn’t felt much like doing for the past two weeks.

“Dad,” he mouths. Dean nods and snatches the room key from the guy.

“C’mon.”

Dean lets Sam handle the lock to what must be Dad’s room, a proud look on his face which kinda makes Ross wanna barf. Sam was always good at this sort of shit, picking locks, hacking into computers, learning long chunks of Latin. Ross was always better at the cool stuff like nailing a moving target first time round, one bullet only, or knowing the quickest way to get a dude or a thing on the ground with the least damage to himself. And Dean… well, Dean took care of the money: credit card scams, pool hustling, poker, odd jobs… that was always Dean’s thing. Even now, Ross isn’t entirely sure exactly how their credit card scams work and he’s never bothered learning how to run a good hustle. Dean was always good enough for all of them.

He can tell straight away that Dad’s been here. There’s crap all over the walls: newspaper cuttings with markings in pen, maps with drawing pins stuck in them, a real serial killer look. One time when he was about thirteen, he invited a friend back after school, Matt or something he was called, maybe Michael or Merv, fuck, he doesn't remember, he had so many goddamn friends over the years. Anyway, Dad had covered the living room in all his usual shit, and when Martin or Matt or Michael followed him inside, he looked around at it with this freaked-out expression, turning to look at Ross with a scared look in his little kid eyes.

It didn't occur to Ross until then that it was something unusual. Course, on the very few occasions he got to hang out at other kids’ houses, he never saw anything like it, but Dad’s buddies like Caleb and Bobby did the same sort of shit, so it seemed normal to him. Except, the expression on Michael/Merv’s face was telling him it wasn’t normal. He said something to the other kids at school about it afterwards and Ross had to put up with their taunts for a day until he got fed up and beat one of them up during afternoon recess. He was suspended for that, but it didn’t matter, they moved on three weeks later.

Sam goes straight over to one of the newspaper articles, Dean following to stand just beside him, muttering something under his breath to Sam as Sam reads out loud. Ross watches them for a second, then turns to take a look around, noticing a photo shoved into the mirror over the desk. He walks over and picks it up, mouth falling open in surprise when he recognizes it. Pastor Jim took it of the four of them about twelve years ago: Dad leaning on the hood of the Impala, flanked by Dean and Sam, Ross in the middle, standing in the V of his father’s legs, Dad’s hands on his shoulders.

So, was Dad was carrying this photo with him when he disappeared? Dad must’ve been carrying this with him for years. Wow. It’s kinda hard to think of family-photo-carrying-Dad and crazy-obsessed-hunter-Dad as being the same person, but then, whatever Sam used to say, Ross has never doubted how much Dad cares about them, which is why now – him being out of contact for so long - it’s so goddamn wrong.

He stares down at his own much younger face, he looks happy, grinning like a dumb kid at the camera, scrawny and skinny with dark, mop-top hair, looking more like Sammy’s twin than his brother. People always used to bang on about how much he and Sam looked alike, back before Sammy grew so freakishly fast.

“Hey, whatcha got there?” Sam says, taking the picture from him. “Oh,” he says, sounding surprised. He glances up, catches Ross’s eye, he seems about to say something when Dean interrupts them.

“Look what I found.”

They both jump when Dean slams Dad’s journal down onto the dresser between them.

 

**

 

Dean insists on going to eat after they discover Dad’s journal. Ross isn’t hungry but he agrees with Dean, especially after Sam opens his mouth to protest.

“Go back and sleep if you’re tired, man,” Dean tells him. “But I’m gonna get a burger. I’m starving.”

Sam looks pissed but, for once, doesn’t say anything, and tags along. He heads straight to the bathroom when they get inside the diner. Ross watches him cross the room, Sam still slouches when he walks, though not as much as he used to do. When he was younger, he used to slouch so much it was like he had a freaking hump, Dad was always riding his ass about it. But Sam had shot up so quickly and he seemed constantly embarrassed by it. Ross never got that; in Sam’s place, he would’ve loved being freakishly tall, being able to, like, literally look down on people, getting picked first in basketball, (until they’d figured out that Sam totally sucked at basketball), being able to see everything first over other people’s heads. How was all that not awesome? But Sam, like the fucking buzzkill he was, just seemed to treat it like it was some massive freaking burden.

Opposite him, Dean’s silent, running his fingers over the laminate menus, looking tired and worried, eyes fixed on some point over Ross’s shoulder. He can make out the heavy bulk of Dad’s journal in Dean’s inner jacket pocket, bulging out the lining and making his jacket hang lopsidedly. He doesn’t want to think about why Dad left his journal behind. Dad never goes anywhere without his journal.

“Did you order yet?” For once, he’s relieved at Sam’s interruption.

“No. We were waiting for you,” Ross answers, glancing at Dean. Dean is silent, still with that brooding look on his face. Ross hates that look, it makes him want to talk too fast, filling the silence that should be comfortable with meaningless bullshit just to make that look go from Dean's face.

Sam continues standing there, looking uncomfortable and looming over the table like an enormous, awkward, looming thing. Ross cranes his head back to look up at him.

“You gonna sit down, or what?”

“Oh yeah, right,” Sam mutters. He hesitates and eventually prods at Ross with one of his massive man-paws, “Move over.”

Ross does, too surprised to do anything else. What the hell is Sam doing sitting next to him? Given a choice, hell, given any fucking choice, Sam always picked Dean over him; just as Ross always picked Dean over Sam. He and Sam spent their entire childhood fighting for Dean and Dad’s attention, until Sammy got all pissed and angry with Dad and blamed him for totally everything that was wrong in his life forever, amen. With Dean though, that was totally different, the two of them still fought for Dean’s attention right up until the moment Sam told them all he was leaving.

Sam crowds in next to him, and Ross clamps down on the urge to kick him in the shin as Sam takes up every inch of space with his ginormous arms and legs.

“Dude, would you just--“

“What?”

“Stop fuckin’ crowding me.”

“Get over yourself!” Sam snaps, signaling for the waitress.

Dean raises his head and stares at them murderously, turning the look into a big fake smile as the middle-aged waitress with a shiny nametag – Donna – approaches.

It’s still strange to be sitting next to Sam. His elbows stick out (though Ross is half sure he’s doing it on purpose) and he has zero room to maneuver as he tries to eat his burger. He’s obviously never appreciated before the massive favor Dean must’ve been doing for him all this time by taking up the slack and always sitting next to Sam, because this… man… this sucks.

When Dad was with them, he always made sure Ross and Sammy – the younger Winchesters – took the inside seats, while Dad and Dean took the outside seats, the protector seats. Always on the watch, always on the look out for any lurking potential evil. On the few occasions he and Dean have been with Dad over the past couple of years, they fell into the same patterns: Ross on the inside, Dad on the outside, and Dean opposite them with this big-ass, Sam-shaped space beside him. If Ross ever thinks about it deeply, it’s like some sort of metaphor for their family post Sam’s big, epic leaving thing. Not that he ever does think about it deeply, that’s so not his way; he’ll save that introspective, chick flick crap for Sam.

 

**

 

"Dad wouldn't just leave his journal behind," Sam says, his brow is furrowed in that Sammy way, his fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. Dean can tell he's really starting to worry now, finally taking things seriously.

"Yeah, we know," says Ross. "We're the ones who've been with him the last two years."

"Cause he kicked me out," Sam retorts. "He was the one who told me to get out. To stay gone. That was him." Sam's voice is getting louder, and Ross has got his mouth open about to kick in, kid never knew when to shut the hell up.

"Jesus, will you two girls cut it out?" snaps Dean. "Don't you think we've got more important shit to think about?" Ross shuts up immediately of course, Ross always does, but Sam's still furious, his eyes shining angrily, his mouth all pursed. "Sam?" he prompts.

"Fine. God, okay. Fine," Sam relents. He sits back in the booth and pushes his coffee away. "Lets just - figure this shit out and find Dad, so I can go back home."

It's like a stab to the gut. The irritation and anger in Sam's voice, the finality in the way he says "home", and for a moment, it just hurts. Dean turns to look out the window. There's a family car pulling into the parking lot next door, one of those huge-ass station-wagons you don't see around so much these days, all been replaced by SUV's or hybrids (especially here, fucking California). A father gets out, followed by two little girls. They're dressed in matching red coats, brown hair bouncing as they jump out the car. The father locks up and holds out his hands to them which they take, bounding excitedly up and down in their shiny, little girl shoes. Dean blinks tiredly and watches them disappear into the fake, Italian ice cream parlor on the other side of the street. For a second, he feels like giving up, turning around and driving Sam back to Palo Alto, dropping him back in his perfect life with his perfect girl and leaving him the hell alone.

Hell, Sammy was right before, they don’t need him to help find Dad, he and Ross could handle it just fine without him. But when Bobby suggested it (…Don’t you think you should include your brother in this, boys? He should know that his daddy’s missing…) he didn't hesitate, though Ross argued the entire time, whining under his breath and out loud, "What do we need him for? We don't need his help, Deano; we've managed fine without him. He won't want to come anyway." Well, score one to Littlest Brother on that one.

“C’mon, shake your asses. We got a lot to do.” He gets to his feet with a jerk, reaching for his wallet, ready to pay.

He’s too tired and on edge to respond to the cashier’s flirtatious smile, too busy listening to the to and fro sniping and bitching coming from his brothers as they make their way outside. He's forgotten what it's like: Sam and Ross together, the bitching, fighting, worn-over resentments and petty jealousies.

Sam doesn't give Ross chance to call shotgun this time, just slides into the passenger seat with a surly look on his face as Dean comes out. Dean ignores him and puts his loudest, most obnoxious Motorhead tape into the player.

When they get back to the motel he watches Sam and Ross go inside their room while he locks up the car. He sees the lights go on inside and thinks about joining them, lying down on the couch and getting some much-needed rest. Instead, he heads in the opposite direction, round the side of the building and towards the pool area.

The water’s pretty low, there are leaves floating on the surface and a shape darting across the other side that looks like a fox, though he’s already reaching for his gun, just in case. The surrounding area is dark damp concrete, littered with rusted loungers that he can’t imagine anyone ever wanting to sit on, even when it’s actually hot enough to do so. There are a couple of rotted looking benches and he takes a seat on one of them. The moon is half-full, reflected in the dark, rippling water lending the place a strange sort of mesmerizing atmosphere. He shivers, a long, flickering sensation along his spine; something feels off, and he reaches inside his coat to curl his fingers around his gun again.

The last time he and Ross saw Dad was over three weeks ago now. The three of them had just finished up a hunt up in Oregon, some weird tree spirit things which Dad was carefully recording in the journal, writing it up at the kitchen table in the crap-ass motel room they’d rented for the week. Dean brought him a beer and told him to get some rest, but Dad just smiled his tired-old-guy smile, patted his arm and told him to get to bed. “I need to get this down while I remember it. I need to be away by dawn.”

“Something we can help with?” he asked, but Dad didn’t hear the hopeful note in his voice, or if he did, he ignored it. He just shook his head and told him to look after Ross. “Look after your brother, Dean. I’ll call you boys. Caleb mentioned something to me about a hunt down in New Orleans for you. Now, get some sleep.” It was an order and Dean was too well-conditioned not to obey an order, so he left his father and went to bed. That was the last time he saw him.

He sighs, shakes a cigarette out of his packet. Shit, he’s only got two left, and he only bought this packet… well, fuck, he’s gotten through twenty in the past twenty four hours. It’s been a while since he’s smoked that much.

He starts to his feet when he hears the footsteps. Sitting back down in relief when he recognizes Sam’s tall shadow. Sam wrinkles his nose as he sits down beside him, waving the smoke away with a prissy look.

“I thought you gave up.”

“I did.”

“So, when did you start again?”

Dean shrugs, takes another long drag, holds the smoke in; he exhales slowly, savoring it. "Dunno. After you left I guess."

A muscle twitches in the corner of Sam's mouth, a flicker across his face that looks like guilt, and Dean can’t help feeling a stab of vindictive pleasure.

"Hey, give me one."

They both jump as Ross appears from nowhere, materializing in front of them with his hand held out, making a grabby gesture with his fingers. Dean tosses him the packet – his one remaining cigarette. Fucking typical.

"That's my last one. You smoke it; you're buying me my next pack, bitch."

"Whatever," shrugs Ross. He's already lighting up, smirking at Sam's disapproving face.

"You two are pathetic. It doesn't make you look cool, you know," says Sam.

“Really?” says Ross, widening his eyes. “Fuck, why did no one ever tell me that before?”

Sam doesn't respond to that, but Dean can feel him fuming beside him. His nostrils are flared and his eyes have narrowed so far, they’re practically slits. Dean finishes off his cigarette, drops the smoldering butt to the floor, grinds it out with the heel of his boot. He srops one hand to Sam’s knee and squeezes. It’s meant to be a reassuring gesture, a cheer-the-fuck-up-and-get-over-yourself-dude sort of gesture, but the feel of the tight muscle under his hand, is unexpectedly hot, like a jolt all the way up his arm, a rush to his blood. He feels the muscle jump, and Sam’s expression shifts abruptly, head jerking towards him, glancing up and meeting Dean’s eyes, mouth slightly parted. Dean’s throat goes dry and he wrenches his hand away, realizing that this is the first time he’s touched Sam since he’s seen him again, the first time he’s touched him in _years_.

He jumps to his feet. His fingers feel strange, tingling as if the warmth from Sam’s body has seeped into them. He glances down at Sam; he’s gone back to staring at the floor, face hidden, but Dean can see the way his fingers are clenched around his knees, the tight set to his shoulders. He feels the breath catch in his throat and he coughs. Sam's head jerks up, eyes focusing in on him. He hits his chest with the edge of his fist, sends Sam a fake, shit-eating smile.

“Must be that smoker’s cough I’ve heard so much about.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I’m surprised Dad lets you get away with it. Thought two good little soldiers like you two would know how detrimental smoking can be to your fitness.”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with my fitness,” snaps Ross, flicking his own butt towards the pool. “I’ll fuckin’ prove it if you want. You and me sparring. See if your pansy college ass remembers anything useful.”

“Whoa, chill out, Rambo,” says Dean. Sam sniggers, Ross’s eyes narrow into an expression that’s scarily similar to the one on Sam’s face only two minutes earlier. “No one’s gonna be fighting with anyone. Less I say so of course.”

“Whatever,” says Sam.

“Hey, hey, dude. Sammy. We're gonna, fix this. You know that, right? We'll find Dad and you can go back to your girl. Just, chill."

Ross scoffs but Sam says nothing, just releases a long put upon sigh before he gets to his feet and heads back towards the room.

“I told you we shouldn’t’ve gotten him involved,” says Ross conversationally, that smug I-know-better look on his face as he meets Dean’s eyes.

“Shut up. You owe me cigarettes.”

Ross kicks the edge of Dean’s boot, “Hey, Deano, I’m good for it. You fuckin’ know it.” He smiles, mouth opening wide to reveal a white strip of teeth and the Winchester dimples.

Dean sighs in exasperation. He can’t resist that face, never could, and Ross fucking knows it.

“Well, you’d better be.”

 

Dean wakes up to the sound of the door creaking shut. He freezes for a moment, remembers the salt lines Ross laid down last night. Nothing could’ve gotten in. Which means… one of them must have gone out. He blinks his eyes open and looks towards the twin beds. The one nearest to him – Ross’s – is still occupied, the other – Sam’s – isn’t. He should've put money on it.

He grits his teeth, slides out from under the tatty blanket, reaching for his jeans. He pulls them on, jams his feet into his boots, shrugs his jacket on over the old t-shirt he was sleeping in, and pads outside.

Sam’s standing in the middle of the parking lot, highlighted by the half-moon, his shadow slanting long over the grey concrete. He’s got his phone to his ear and Dean can make out the soft rumble of his voice, though not what he’s actually saying. He’s pacing, the gravel crunching under his sneakers. He pauses by a beaten-up truck, leans against it, head bowed, eyes fixed on his shoes.

Dean holds in a breath and just looks at him. The ache in his chest is like a physical wound, like the way his knee twists when he’s running a certain way, a tight, breathless stab of pain, overpowering and something he can’t do anything about. He hasn’t allowed himself to feel like this. There have been too many other things, other people who really need him, other brothers and family members who don’t leave. He can make out Sam’s words now, can sense by the tone of his voice that he’s ending the call, his voice going higher and looser, "Love you too, see you tomorrow."

_Love you too._

“Dean?”

Shit. He raises his head to meet Sam’s gaze. He’s staring at him, a confused look on his face.

“Dean. What’re you doing?”

“Checking up on you. What does it look like?”

Sam’s mouth quirks. “Of course you are. You know, you haven’t changed.”

“You have.”

Sam looks thoughtful, pushes himself off the truck with both hands, comes slowly towards him. “Maybe.”

For one crazy moment, he imagines himself crossing the parking lot, grabbing hold of Sam by his stupid Stanford t-shirt and pushing him back against the truck. Holding him in place with one knee between his legs and one hand on the back of his neck, crowding into him with every ounce of strength he possesses and kissing him, brutal and possessive as it always was and how it never is with anyone else. He’s shocked by the amount of willpower it takes to not move, to not do it.

“I – you know – it was never your fault. Me leaving.”

“No?”

Sam shakes his head and he looks so fucking sincere that Dean feels sick. “Honestly, without you, I would’ve gone before then. I definitely wouldn’t have stuck around that extra year after high school, and God, before then, when I was younger. I would probably have ended up running away. Gotten myself taken into care or something.”

“Don’t say that!” A flare of anger hits him at Sam’s words. Anger against Sam for not realizing that it wasn’t just about him or even about the two of them; there was Dad and there was Ross and they were a family. They had always been a family. The four of them.

“Why the hell not? It’s the truth after all! What did Dad ever do for me, ‘cept ruin my life? Fuck up everything I had at school, and keep me from ever having a real future? He never saw me as a son, I was a soldier for him. When I was nine years old he gave me a fuckin’ Colt! What kind of father gives a gun to a nine year old?”

“He knew what was out there. He knew you had to be prepared. He just wanted to protect us.”

“Whatever! It wasn’t just him, Dean. It was – all of you: Dad and Ross… and – and, even you! I never. I was always the odd one out. Me and Ross – God, you know how it was…”

“He’s your brother.”

“Yeah,” Sam shrugs, tight and angry, “but not like you are.”

“He’s our brother, my brother,” says Dean, and he feels a surge of protectiveness, of anger. “That must mean something to you.”

Sam presses his lips together, looks away from Dean, ducking his head, hair falling to hide his face.

He watches Sam’s bent head with a raw sensation at the back of his throat. The thing was, he always knew that Sam would leave. It was as inevitable as the way he felt about him. And hell, Sammy never bothered hiding anything from him: his anger and misery, how futile he thought his entire life was.

“If I go, would you come with me?” he asked Dean once. His voice was wistful, hiding his expression under those too long bangs, as if he knew what he was asking of Dean, what it meant. “If it could be just me and you…”

“I’m not going anywhere, Sammy, you know that.”

“But imagine it, Dean, you and me. We could do whatever we wanted. And people… people wouldn’t know.”

Dean didn’t imagine it; he didn’t let himself, because that was too much, too fucking tempting. He always knew that, in the end, he would have to make the choice. On one side, Sam and him, the crazy things they did to each other, the crazy way Sam made him feel, the overpowering love he sometimes felt had to be obscene, so much did it obscure everything else. Wrong love, he used to tell himself when he would look at Sam and forget how to breathe. But on the other side, there was Dad and Ross and the job and duty and Mom’s memory and family, and Dean was unable to see past that. Nothing was more important than family. Even Sammy.

Dean sighs, pushes the memories away, locking them down into that cold, unreachable part of his mind. This is just wasting time, it’s old news, done with. What matters now is finding Dad, protecting Ross, as Dad told him to, and doing the job. Whether Sam’s here or not, that’s what’s important and he can’t let himself wallow in any of this nostalgia bullshit.

“Come on, man, we should get some more sleep, got a lot to do tomorrow.”

“Nah, I’m alright here. You go. If you want, I can do some of the driving tomorrow. Give you a break.”

Dean snorts. “In your dreams.”

“Yeah, kinda thought you’d say that.” Sam shakes his head and grins softly. “Night, dude.”

Dean nods and turns around, he doesn’t look back as he closes the door.


	2. Chapter 2

When they were younger, Dean used to call Ross, littlest brother. It was something that used to drive Ross mad and make Sam cackle as if it was, like, the most hilarious thing in the fucking universe. After Sam left, he stopped doing it and Ross kinda missed it.

Ross never analyzed shit much. But one time, about a couple of months after Sam left, he got drunk, like, way drunk, so drunk that he couldn’t help himself.

“Do you wish it was me?” he asked when Dean rolled him into bed.

“What?”

“Instead of Sam. Do you wish I was the one that had gone away?” He reached out for Dean, flailed about with his arms until Dean pushed him away.

“That’s bullshit, kiddo, just go to sleep,” Dean said, but Ross knew, Dean always sucked at lying to him.

He hears Dean come back in. Hears him kick off his boots and tug down his jeans, shuck off his jacket and climb onto the couch. He couldn’t hear what Dean and Sam were fighting about, but he heard their raised voices, and he knows that Sam’s still out there, doing whatever it is that Sam does when he fights with Dean… angsting or emo-ing or the usual Sam woe-is-me shit.

He never got Sam. Sam was always unhappy, always bitching and whining about everything: the food they ate, the places they lived in, the schools they attended, the lying and hiding from the police, the training sessions, the curfews, the secrecy and lies, you fucking name it, Sammy whined about it.

Maybe he was different before Ross became one of them. But Ross’s first memory of his brothers is of the two of them staring at him with matching suspicious eyes, a silver knife glinting in Dean’s hand and Sam’s small fingers fisted in Dean’s pajama top. Thinking on it now, he really couldn’t blame them: waking up to find a strange kid in bed with you was no way to discover you had a long lost brother, and Dad hadn’t been much use, passed out, dead to the world on the couch, worn out by their long exhausting flight from Texas.

Anyway, whatever, it wasn’t a good beginning, and things with Sam never really improved much.

He's woken up by a wet towel landing on his head and Dean singing out, "Rise and shine, kiddo!" too fucking loud.

It's so much like normal that, for a moment, he forgets the last twenty four hours, forgets the hunt, forgets that Dad is missing, and forgets that Sam is with them. That is, until he opens his eyes to see Sam leaning over him, wet from the shower and shaking his head like some sort of freaking shaggy dog. Dean is cackling like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen in the history of ever and Sam is actually fucking smiling for once, looking really pleased with himself. Of course, one of the only things that never failed to put a smile on Sammy’s face was pissing him off.

Ross sits up, pushes Sam away roughly, wiping the water off his face with his other hand. "Get the fuck offa me!"

Sam laughs at him, pads away to his bed, starts rummaging through his duffle. Ross watches him with narrowed eyes. "Fuckin' asshole.”

"Hey, cheer up, littlest bro. I have a good feeling about today," Dean says cheerfully.

Ross looks at him. He's looking happier than he has done in a while. Hell, he's even sort of whistling as he sorts through his duffle trying to find something half clean.

"You do realize you've just gone and jinxed it for us, right?" says Sam, pulling an enormously lame t-shirt on over his head. "By saying that, it's all gonna go wrong from here on out."

"Sammy! Where's your faith, dude? Dad already did the leg work on this one – we know what we’re after: woman in white, blah blah blah. We just go talk to the husband, get it confirmed - cheating sonofabitch, then we find her bones and salt and burn ‘em. Easy."

Sam snorts, "Whatever. If anything goes wrong, I'm blaming you."

"Why change the habit of a lifetime?" retorts Dean, but he's still looking happy, still smiling. Ross watches him disappear back into the bathroom with his toothbrush and feels a weight lift from his stomach, like some horrible knot of tension starting to unwind.

Sam goes off to find out where Constance Welch is buried while he and Dean go to interview the husband. It’s boring, it’s predictable, Sam was right, Dad was right, he did cheat and she did kill her kids. At least now they can get to the violence and waste the bitch.

Sam's sitting on his bed when they get back, Dean's laptop open on his knees. He's been acting like he owns the fucking thing ever since he decided to tag along with them, looking up stuff constantly, probably sending soppy emails to his girlfriend and other lame crap like that. It's not like he hasn't got his own laptop, Ross saw it when they were in his apartment the other night, one of those super-skinny Mac things no less, pretentious asshole.

"I brought bagels!" calls Dean, dangling the bag from one finger. "And coffee. Tell me I'm an awesome brother."

Sam looks up from the computer, frowns. " _You_ eat bagels? You two?"

"What? We're too fucking hick to eat bagels?" snaps Ross. "We're only supposed to eat donuts, are we?"

Sam looks confused for a moment, then shrugs, "Well, yeah."

Ross glances at Dean, he looks amused. He dumps the take-out bag on the shitty table and starts taking each item out.

"Coffee - white, lots of sugar for me. Coffee - white with some sort of caramel crap in it for Samantha, and this macho stuff must be yours?" He holds it out to Ross with a smir., "You big tough guy, you!"

"Fuck off," he takes it from Dean. "Or I won't let you share."

"Share what?"

"These." He throws the packet of cigarettes he picked up while Dean was doing the coffee and bagels run onto the table, watching his brother's face light up.

"Oh dude, lifesaver," Dean moans, shaking one out.

"You're pathetic," Sam says as he comes forward to claim his own coffee. "Addicts."

Dean just smirks at him and heads outside. Sam looks after him, a smile playing on his face, making him look happy too. Something weird is definitely going on here. Last night the two of them were out in the parking lot fighting, and now...

He pushes the thought of just what might've made them both so goddamn cheery out of his head and finishes his bagel.

He never knew exactly how long it had been going on before he figured it out. He was fifteen when he did, and it was Dean’s 21st birthday. Dean had just gotten his first genuine fake ID, the name on it was fake (Dean McWord, Ross had picked it out for him) but the birth date was genuine. It made Dean stupidly happy, which Ross totally didn’t get. Dean had been sneaking into bars since he was Ross’s age, why did the fact he was legal make any difference?

Whatever, Dean was happy and had gone out and bought three bottles of tequila, about a ton of limes and stolen some of the rock salt they used to make salt rounds. Dad was away on some hunt somewhere, but he’d called Dean earlier to wish him happy birthday (which was better than any of them usually got) so that was all good.

The three of them had gotten drunk pretty fucking quickly which was all Dean’s fault, forcing shots on the two of them by insulting them and calling them girls, which, okay, was totally fucking on the ball when it came to Sammy. They were sitting out on the back porch of their rental, it was January but it was still warm so that must’ve been the winter they spent in that piece of shit town somewhere outside of Tampa. He and Sam attended a high school there so fucked up there were bars on every window and two computers among the entire eighth grade, while Dean worked on a construction crew, building another out of town shopping center which was supposed to be the answer to all the town’s woes. Like anything coulda helped that shithole.

Anyway, Ross was drunk, and after matching Dean and Sam shot for shot (which in hindsight was pretty fucking stupid of him, given that he was only fifteen, Sammy was a freaking giant and Dean had years of alcohol abuse to count on), he eventually passed out.

He came to later, blinked open his eyes and saw them...

Sam had Dean pressed up against the back door, one hand disappearing under the waistband of Dean’s jeans, the other gripping his shoulder. Their mouths were jammed together, Dean’s hands cupping Sam’s face, disappearing into his stupid shaggy hair, as he drove his tongue into Sam’s mouth, feverish and dirty.

For a moment he couldn’t breathe. He was watching Dean and Sam, _his brothers_ , making out? _With each other?_

That was… that couldn’t be… he was hallucinating.

Dean groaned, tipping his head back against the wall, exposing his throat. Sam’s mouth followed, not letting him get away for a second, pressing sloppy kisses along Dean’s chin, his jaw, his throat… then back to his mouth, and he was kissing Dean like his life depended on it, sucking on his tongue and slobbering all over his face with loud desperate kisses as if it was the only thing keeping him alive.

It was all so much like _Sam_ , like the Sammy Ross knew, that it made him feel sick. The annoying, desperate, dorky way he drove his body against Dean’s, like he couldn’t get enough of him, never enough. And Dean… Dean wasn’t just _letting_ Sam, he was _encouraging_ him, making soft, needy noises, like the ones Ross sometimes heard him make when he jerked off.

He realized with stark, stomach-lurching clarity that Dean was getting off on it. That both of them – his brothers – were getting each other off. Dean’s voice all breathy and moany, gasping out: _Sammy, Oh God, Sam, fuck, Sammy_ into Sam’s face, as Sam gripped him harder and harder and moaned out Dean’s name.

He felt sick to his stomach, his insides ripped apart, like those ghouls he’d once seen feasting on rotting corpses when Dad had let him tag along on a hunt, blood and guts and entrails and intestines spilling from the yellow, shriveled corpse. He’d been sick, caught a whiff of the smell, and turned to throw up all over his sneakers. Dad had been furious, had refused to take him on another hunt for almost a year. But that feeling, that disgust, that feeling in his gut, that was _nothing_ , not compared to now – what he was seeing.

He bit his lip hard enough to hurt and barely noticed it when the tears started sliding down his face.

He didn’t say anything to the two of them about it. What was he supposed to say? He watched them; though God, no, not in that way. He wasn’t like them. Disgusting and fucked-up and perverted, with something broken inside them, some part of their brains that was just… wrong.

He couldn’t look at them the same afterwards. Not for a long while. Some part of him had been hardened, his heart perhaps, turned to stone, forever. He knew he’d never be able to forgive them.

What was wrong with them? What was wrong with _Dean_? He was the oldest, he was… Dean. Why couldn’t he see that this – this was wrong and it would end up fucking up _everything_ – ruining them and breaking their family apart.

Dean wasn’t entirely blind. He saw that Ross had changed, he actually fucking noticed, and things must’ve gotten bad, because one time, he cornered him, followed him down to the creek by a place they were living in Alabama, and that was bad cause Dean never questioned anything, Dean never spoke about his feelings, Dean hated family confrontations.

But Dean followed him, saying, “What is it, Ross? What’s wrong with you? Tell me what’s wrong, kiddo.”

He’d sworn to himself that he would tell him. That he would turn around and sneer out: “What’s wrong with _me?_ What’s wrong with you – you disgusting pervert!!” And Dean would freeze up, be guilty and devastated, and God, he _wanted_ Dean to be devastated, because what he and Sammy were doing was wrong and sick and just, God, just disgusting, betraying the family, betraying Dad, betraying _him_.

And why was it Sam? Fucking Sam. What was so great about Sam?

But he was unable to say anything, he stared at Dean’s face, at his obliviousness, at his confusion, and he couldn't say anything. He turned and ran, not listening to Dean calling out after him, so desperate to get some space between him and his eldest brother. No longer the big brother Ross had always counted on, the one he'd always loved best.

Dean knew better than to confront him again.

He wanted to be sly and insinuating, to say shit in front of Dad that would embarrass the two of them, that would signal to them that he _knew_ , that he wasn’t the dumb little kid they thought he was. But he was never able to, always too chicken. And they were both so - so… _normal_ in front of Dad. Acting as they always did, and Dad didn’t suspect a thing, and he never got that, he never understood how Dad could not see it, because to him, it was so fucking clear, so fucking obvious.

But if Dad did suspect, he never said anything. He never _did_ anything. So they carried on. All that time, all those years. Until Sam left.

He could remember one time, months after he’d found out. He’d been excused from chores to do his homework. He was sitting at the kitchen table, watching Dean and Sam wash and dry the dishes. Dean had his hands in the sink, soap suds up to his elbows, Sam leaned into him, whispered something in his ear. Dean flushed, his cheeks and neck going pink, he turned his head and gave Sam a look filled with so much love and longing that something cracked inside Ross, something broke. He gripped the edge of the table with white knuckles and felt his eyes blur over with tears.

 

***

 

It’s all over so quickly.

Sam’s in the car, gasping for air, starving for oxygen, the malingering spirit choking the life from his body, then she’s gone… blown away by Dean and his favorite shotgun.

Then she’s really gone. Embracing her kids in one last watery hug, dragged down to Hell or Heaven or wherever restless spirits go when they’re no longer restless.

He looks up. Dean’s panting heavily, clutching his chest, flushed, blood from a gash in his forehead dripping splat-splat-splat onto the bare wood floor. Ross is on the floor by the wall, sprawled out on his back, chest spasming up and down with winded breaths. Ross groans loudly and Dean staggers over, bending over to pull him to his feet. The two of them stumble around to stare at Sam, Ross clutching Dean’s arm with both hands, looking dazed. Sam stares back at them, blinking dizzily. He feels his mouth start to crook upwards into a painful smile. He feels weirdly elated, high on blood loss and euphoria, barely noticing the throbbing ache at his temples and chest where the spirit whammied him into the dresser. Dean and Ross heave out a sigh in unison, and grin back at him, dazzling white teeth and blood red gashes across their cheeks, flushed and feverish in the eerie moonlight.

They make it back to the room in one piece, Dean bitching about the damage to the car the entire journey back, about Sam’s desperate ram-raid to save his life. Once they get back to the room, Sam passes out on the bed. He hasn’t felt this exhausted in years and his body’s protesting, forcing him down into sleep. He wakes up a couple of hours later, groggy and thick-headed, aching all over. Dean and Ross are cleaned-up, bandaged and smelling of iodine and cheap shampoo, sitting on the other bed cleaning the weapons.

“Hey, welcome back to the land of the living,” says Dean, looking amused as he staggers past them into the bathroom, slamming the door shut on Ross’s derisive laugh.

He stares at himself in the mirror above the sink, wincing. He looks bad: bruises, cuts, lacerations and contusions on his face and body, like he’s gone four rounds with a pissed-off spirit, which, of course, he has. These are the parts of hunting he doesn’t miss. These are the parts that are going to be hard to explain to Jess.

“Sammy!” The bathroom door rattles. “Sam!”

He puts down the facecloth, glances at the bathroom door.

“What the fuck, dude? I need to piss!”

“Dean…”

“You know I’ll just pick it and come on in anyway."

“Jesus Christ, alright.”

He unlocks the door, lets Dean in. Dean doesn’t spare him a glance, goes straight for the toilet and unzips.

“Hey, Dean, what are you doing?"

“Told you, gotta go.”

“Right.” Sam presses his lips together, looks back at his reflection. He reaches for the washcloth, rinses it under the cold water.

“You got some nasty-ass bruises there,” says Dean.

Sam looks up, catches Dean’s eyes in the mirror.

Despite his shower and the butterfly band-aid across his temple, Dean doesn’t look much better, dark shadows around his eyes, bruises swelling up his lips and jaw. He’s not in as bad a condition as Sam, but still.

“You too.”

Dean shrugs, moves to take the washcloth from his hand. “Here, let me.”

Sam hesitates as he feels Dean move closer, the air getting warmer and closer around them, a weird tingling ache in his skin. Slowly, he looks away, bares his neck. His skin feels damaged, as if he can see the bruises spidering out across his flesh, sending goosebumps prickling up his nape. Hee feels damaged, cut into.

Dean’s hands are gentle; dabbing delicately at the cuts, his breath a steady warm puff against Sam’s face, and Sam can’t help the pleasurable rush spin throughout his body. He’s careful not to look Dean in the face, careful to fix his gaze on his brother’s hands, on the movements of his long capable fingers, on the way they grasp the cloth and press against his skin.

And… ohhh, maybe fixating on how amazing Dean’s hands feel is a bad idea because his cock is starting to take interest, slowly getting harder, pressing against the seam of his jeans.

He tears his gaze away, stares down on the water circling the drain, but Dean’s fingers are deliciously soft against his throat and he feels suddenly, overwhelmingly aroused. He swallows thickly and Dean stills. The air in the bathroom is stifling, heavy and tangible between them, like their own private two-person bubble. Dean drops the cloth. It slips, a wet solid slap against the porcelain.

“Sam.”

Dean’s voice is low and gruff, making something shift in Sam’s chest.

God, not this conversation, he doesn’t want this conversation. This is about the last conversation he ever wants. He wants to get in the car, go back to Stanford, feel Jess’s arms around him, know he’s got an interview the next day, know he’s got a future that’s nothing about hunting, nothing about his family. He doesn’t want to be this: Samuel John Winchester, fucked-up and wrong in the head. The freak who gets aroused by his brother, who gets so turned on by his big brother that the only thing he can think about is slamming him up against the sink and kissing him and kissing him until they both come in their pants.

“What?”

Dean doesn’t say anything, stands there, breathing low and steady.

“Dean?”

Hitch of breath, Dean turns, puts his back to Sam, his voice unsteady, uncomfortable. “Ross, uh, found some co-ordinates in Dad’s journal. A note, he must’ve left for us. Of where he is.”

“Oh. Where? Did you trace them?”

“Blackwater Ridge, Colorado. Middle of nowhere. We’re gonna. We’re settin’ out soon as you’re okay and ready to move.”

“I’m not incapacitated. I can move now. You should’ve said.”

Dean shrugs, finally looks up, their eyes meet. “Well then. We’re waiting for you.”

He turns to leave. Sam’s hand snaps out, snags his sleeve, a sudden flash of desire deep and urgent in his gut.

“Dean.”

“What?” Dean turns around, careful blank expression in place, all emotion schooled away.

“I’m not coming with you. I told you. I have an interview.”

“Riiiight, law school.”

“Yeah. This is my entire future. This is. It’s important.”

Dean nods, lips pressed together, eyes cast downwards, unreadable. Eventually, he raises his head again, gaze flicking quickly to Sam’s face then back again.

“We’ll drop you off,” he says.

He leaves, door rattling closed behind him. Sam snaps the lock and slumps onto the closed toilet lid. He presses the heel of his palm to his rock-hard cock, he’ll have to take care of this before they go anywhere.

**

Sam has to admit he enjoyed the hunt. Despite the reassurance, the mantra in his head that he's done with it, there is still something about hunting - the adrenalin rush, the feeling of job well done - that’s wired into him. Seeing a spirit vaporize, knowing that they’ve saved the lives of future idiotic cheating frat boys, knowing that someone is finally put to rest, it's all so satisfying. There is a part of him that is always going to miss this life. Miss his brothers (God, miss Dean), the only two other people in the entire world who truly know who he is and know what it’s like to grow up as they did. 

He’s in the backseat for the trip back to Stanford. He didn’t bother to fight for shotgun this time around. It’s Ross’s now, Ross has earned it, he’s the one whose stuck around these past couple of years, the one whose been with Dean every single day. And Sam's pretty much okay with that. Dean needs someone to have his back, and Ross is that person now, not him. He’s got his own life, and the kind of crap that used to obsess him when he was younger – his and Ross’s fight-to-the-death, world-ending sibling rivalry – it’s not so important anymore. He’s gotten past all that, he’s in a different place to Ross and Dean, he has a different life. He’s grown up and away from them. He’s moved on and he feels like a better person for it.

He drums his fingers against his knee, stares out the window. Outside everything’s dark, the car's one working headlight casting uneven shadows. He feels strange, jittery, nervous. He’s relieved to be going back, back to Stanford, back to Jess, definitely relieved, but still. 

“Y’alright, Sam? Not asleep?”

Dean’s voice breaks the silence. He digs his fingers into his thighs, a weight settling over him as he stares at the back of Dean’s head. His voice is low and intimate, familiar in all the wrong ways.

“Sam?”

“Yeah, I, yeah. Not asleep, but I’m fine. Quit worrying, Dean.”

“She tore a chunk outta you, man, course I was worried.”

“Well, I feel fine. Nothing I can’t handle,” he snaps.

“Sure, if you say so,” Dean replies evenly.

They sit in silence. Minutes pass, then Dean chuckles under his breath, says, “Never woulda thought it.”

“Thought what?”

“You. Doin’ the dirty on your girl.”

“No. What? Course I haven’t done the dirty on my… On Jess.”

“No? My bad. S’just that that was what that bitch did, right? Got revenge on unfaithful boyfriends. She seemed pretty fucking keen to get revenge on you. Can’t blame a guy for--”

“That’s bullshit, Dean!” he interrupts, irritated by the knowing tone in his brother’s voice. “I don’t know why she did that but I wouldn’t cheat. No way! Can’t believe you think I would.”

A long pause, Dean sniggers, “Oh, Sammy, dude, you’re so easy!”

“What?” He looks up, meets Dean’s eyes in the driver’s mirror. “Oh, ha fucking ha. You’re so hilarious.”

“I know. Totally, right?” Sam rolls his eyes, sees Dean’s reflection smile, eyes gleaming in the dark. “Shit, I know you wouldn’t cheat on anyone. Particularly a fine piece of ass like–-“

“Trust me, you do not want to finish that sentence.”

Dean laughs out loud, drums his palms against the steering wheel, rat-a-tat-tat of beats that’s probably some lame drum solo from some lame song. It’s all so Dean, that despite his annoyance at Dean’s teasing doucheyness, Sam finds himself smiling.

“So, seriously, tell me, how did you hook up with a chick that hot?”

“Sure wasn’t anything you taught me.”

Dean scoffs, “Yeah, right. You learned it all from me, bitch.”

“Whatever makes you feel happier, Dean.”

Dean smiles, crinkles at the corners of his eyes, a full wattage Dean Winchester special. A wave of pure affection hits him, it feels… easy, familiar, the car, Dean, Ross, the road. For the first time in a long time, he’s not pretending anything, not editing his words, no lies, no omissions.

They pull up at the apartment three hours later. Ross stirs, makes a weird, rubbery noise with his mouth, looking like a guppy fish peering out through a fish tank, but he doesn’t wake up. Sam leans over the front bench.

“God, what a freak.”

Dean snorts, a fond curl to his mouth. “Hey, you remember that time we put the fish food in his mouth?”

“Oh, yeah. And the spoon thing you used to do when one of us fell asleep?”

“Hey, that trick will never get old.” He looks up, grins at Sam. “Did something like it last month and the little shit put itching powder in my boxers.”

“Wow, the fun never stops with you two.”

“Yeah. Fucking hilarious it was.”

Sam smiles again, staring into Dean’s face: familiar shapes, planes, skin and bone he can still remember the taste of. Dean’s so close, right here, like Sam’s thought about, like he’s dreamed about. Ross is asleep and Dean is here, all he has to do is lean forward. Dean would probably let him. Dean's never said no to him.

He turns away, gathers his duffle from the seat beside him, clears his throat.

“Look, will you tell him – you know, say goodbye from me?”

A flicker in Dean’s eyes, he lowers his head, nods uncomfortably. “Yeah. Okay.”

“And, Dean, if… you, uh, hear from Dad, let me know, okay?”

“You mean you’ll actually pick up the phone?”

He presses his lips together, sighs, hand resting on the door handle. “Yeah. I’ll pick up the phone. I do care about what happens to him.”

“I know you do,” says Dean quietly.

A long pause. There’s something he should be saying now, he knows that, but he’s not sure what it is. He has an interview tomorrow, a very important, life-deciding interview and he almost forgot about it. He glances behind him, sees the apartment building through the Impala’s back window. Jess is up there, waiting for him, probably in bed, warm, soft, beautiful Jess. He has to go now, has to get away – from Dean - because if he doesn’t go now...

He opens the door.

“Well, uh, I’ll see you, I guess.”

Dean nods, says nothing. Sam can feel his eyes on him all the way up the stairs into his building.

He closes the front door behind him, leans against the wall, exhales. He’s trembling, fists clenched in the handle of his duffle. He waits, hears the rumble roar of the Impala’s engine fade away.

They’re gone.

He doesn’t know whether to feel devastated or relieved. It’s almost too much to process.

The apartment’s dark. He didn’t expect anything else, it’s late, Jess will be sleeping. He dumps his duffle on the couch, heads for the kitchen. There’s a plate of cookies in the middle of the kitchen table, dead centre, a note in Jess’s handwriting: MISSED YOU, LOVE YOU! He stares, the words swimming against his tired eyes. There’s a disconnect somewhere, because he doesn’t recognize this – this note – for him? She baked him cookies. He and Ross baked cookies once, for Dean’s sixteenth birthday. They got the recipe off the local TV affiliate’s morning cookery show. Dean was so pleased, he ate the lot in practically one sitting, grinned and laughed like it was the best fucking birthday present ever. They weren’t even that good.

Sam shrugs tiredly, grabs a couple of the cookies. He’s hungry and he needs to stop thinking. He should sleep, stop thinking about Dean, about Dad being missing. He should be thinking about interview questions: _why do you want to be a lawyer, where do you see yourself in five years time…_ He’d been doing so well, everything had seemed so perfectly in place until Dean and Ross showed up.

Jess isn’t in bed. Which is… kinda strange. Probably decided to spend the night with Claire or Becky, maybe she wasn’t expecting him to get back until the morning. He should’ve called her.

He sinks onto the bed, relishing the soft covers, sheets and pillows that smell like him and Jess, definitely no trace of horrible, moldy motel rooms.

He sees her in a flash of a second, a scream that has him diving off the bed. Gash of red against the white, mouth caught in a silent scream.

Fire.

Cascading outwards, waves and waves, yellow, orange, and hot, so hot.

“Sam! Sammy!”

Arms on him, pulling, grabbing, claiming him.

Her body. The black outline, white dress, fire. So fucking hot. He reaches out… If he stretches further he might be able to reach her.

“No! _Sammy!_ C’mon!”

“Ross?”

Ross’s face: flash of white teeth, scared, round eyes, panicked cheeks.

“SAM! ROSS! MOVE! NOW!”

Dean.

His brothers claim him, with wide eyes and desperate hands.

The room’s gone now anyway, eaten up. No more.

And Jess…

She’s gone too.

 

**

 

 

It’s been six days since the fire, and so far, all their research has been for shit. The fire department are insisting it was faulty wiring that caused the fire. Apparently the building Sam was living in was a death trap, more dangerous than some of the flea-ridden shitholes Dad had them living in when they were growing up. There’s probably some sort of irony there but Ross is too bored and too distracted to appreciate it.

He knows they’re not going to find anything, that they’re just wasting their time. It’s so fucking obvious that Sammy’s cute girlfriend was taken out by the same thing that got Sam and Dean’s mom, and if Dad, who's been chasing the thing responsible for over twenty years, has had fuck all luck finding it and killing it, then there’s no freaking way the three of them are going to succeed. They need to get the hell out of this fake shitty town and find Dad.

He’s smoking around the back of their motel room; the sound of Dean and Sam’s voices coming through the thin walls, though he can’t make out what they’re saying, not that he even wants to. He finishes up his cigarette and takes out another, anything to avoid going back to the room yet. It’s exhausting and depressing being around Sam right now, he doesn’t know what to say to him; _sorry your hot girlfriend’s dead, bro_ , just doesn’t cut it, and Sam’s too busy doing his best impression of Dad, all stoic and game-faced, and pretending like everything’s totally not fucked up.

He hears the door open and close. He glances up to see Dean eying him with a strange look on his face.

“What?”

Dean opens his mouth, looks like he’s about to say something, then shuts it again.

_“What?”_

“Jeez, chill out,” Dean hisses. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Maybe it’s being stuck in this fuckin’ hole!” He drops his cigarette, grinds it out violently. Dean’s watching him closely, it’s annoying. “What? Stop fuckin’ staring at me like that!”

“Ross."

“Look, I just – I wanna get the fuck out of here. Go find Dad. We’ve been stuck here for days now, and he’s been missing nearly a month!”

“I know that.” Dean’s pressing his lips together, looking pissed off. Good, he should be. “But we’re not going until after the funeral. We’re not letting Sammy deal with that shit on his own.”

“I don’t need to go.”

Dean gives him a look, full-on big brother disapproval.

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.”

“Oh Jesus, Dean! You know what I mean! You can go look after him. You don’t need me there too! And it’s not like he’ll even give a shit.”

“She was his girlfriend, Ross. She meant something to him; she could’ve ended up being part of the family one day. We – owe this.” He breaks off, looking awkward, doing this fake shrugging thing. “Look, we’re, uh, heading into town. Gotta get smart suits for the funeral. All Sammy’s shit burned up and the stuff we got won’t cut it. You gonna come with, or d’you trust me to pick something out for you?” Ross gives him a look and Dean snorts. “Right. Well, shake ass.” He turns, heading back inside.

“Dean…”

“What?”

“Did you say anything to him about why we went back?”

“What?” Dean’s expression shifts, that worried frown of his, he strides back towards him. “What d’you mean?”

“You know. When we went back. After we dropped him. Did you tell him why?”

“I haven’t said anything to him about it.”

“Said anything to me about what?” Sam’s voice cuts in. Ross jumps in surprise, spins around. Sam’s standing a few yards away, staring at them through narrowed eyes. “What’re you talking about?”

“Nothing, Sammy.“

“Tell me, Dean.”

Sam’s glaring at Dean. Dean looks torn, that big brother, guilty look of his. Christ, there’s no goddamn reason for him to look guilty, but Sam always had that effect on him, always with the emotional blackmail, and Dean always gave into Sammy.

Dean glances at Ross expectantly, and Ross rolls his eyes, says, “I had a dream.”

Sam’s eyes narrow in on him, obviously assuming Ross is mocking him.

“Yeah, uh, what I mean is, that I dreamed about you, Sam. That’s why I told Dean to go back.”

“ _What_?”

Ross hesitates, glances at Dean but Dean’s not looking his way, just staring at Sammy, all crinkled eyes and concern. “He’s right, dude. That’s what happened.”

Sam’s face falls, pinching and crumbling before them like a freaking cookie. Shit.

“Sorry,” adds Ross, because for a moment, just then, he really and truly does feel sorry for his brother, it’s hard not to, he looks so stupidly desperate.

“But… You - did you dream… What about Jess?”

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “I didn’t dream about her. It was just you. I saw you, and it was, like, all fucked up and _wrong_ , so I made Dean turn the car around to go back.”

He can’t remember the details anymore; it’s faded away, as dreams always do. But he can remember the feeling of panic, the one thought beating around his brain: SAVE SAM, GO BACK, SAVE SAMMY. Like one of Dad’s exorcisms, with words that he doesn’t really understand or process, but that he knowsand understands deep down: Sam’s in trouble, they have to go back. Like the end of _The Empire Strikes Back_ , and he’s Princess Leia, (only butcher, though not by much, cause, dude, she was _fierce_ ) and he has to make Chewie (Dean) turn the Millennium Falcon (the Impala) around to go back and save his brother.

Sam’s staring at him, lips trembling pathetically, and just great, he’s so gonna cry. Ross knows it, and it won’t be pretty, Sam's totally a messy girly crier. He glances at Dean again, but Dean’s looking at Sam with a worried, scrunched up face, eyes sort of damp, that just-about-to-cry look of his. Oh for fuck’s sake, has every bit of fucking testosterone left the building? Is he supposed to be the strong one here?

“Why didn’t you see her? Why didn’t you say anything?” Sam croaks, practically pleading with him. Shit. What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? It’s not like he wanted to have the dream and he’s got no fucking clue why he did have it.

He looks towards Dean again for support, but Dean’s already striding towards Sam, covering the few feet between them quickly and pulling him into his arms. Sam lets him, giving in and going limp, burying his face in Dean’s neck, his body beginning to shake. Oh God. Great. Sam’s having an emotional breakdown and it’s all Ross’s fault. He should’ve kept his goddamned mouth closed because now he’s broken his brother. For a second, he wishes desperately that Dad were with them. Dad would know what to say. Okay, so it would probably be something like, “Pull yourself together, son, we got work to do,” or something equally manly and unhelpful, but he would be there and he would be just well… Dad.

Dean seems to have things under control, and if Dad isn’t here then Dean is definitely the next best thing, perhaps even better, at least as far as Sammy’s concerned. Dean’s pulled Sam to the ground, making it easier for him to get his arms around him; after all, Sam is a freakish giant. Dean buries his face in Sam’s hair, and runs his hands up and down Sam’s back in a soothing sort of motion. Dean always used to comfort them like that when they were young. He’d sort of fold himself around them in a big-ass hug and run his hands up and down their backs, whispering stupid words in his low steady voice. It kinda manages to be disturbing and comforting at the same time to see him doing it now.

“Sammy?” Ross says carefully.

Dean lifts his head and looks at him. His face is pale and strained, but his eyes are saying, _don’t worry, kiddo, I’ve got it_. Ross stares at him, gulps over the lump in his throat, nodding and backing away from them.

The best thing is to leave the two of them to it, 'cause fuck, it’s not like he has anything to add to the freaking conversation. It’s probably good for Sam to cry and let it out and all that shit. Endorphins or something – they get released when you have a good cry, he saw that on some talk show one time, it’s all chemistry after all, everything in your body – like, feelings and emotions, just chemistry. Sam would know about that, he loves that science crap.

He heads into the motel room. It’s a mess, clothes and towels and piles of paper all over the place. Sam’s research is strewn across every surface, some of it tacked to the wall even. Seeing it reminds him of Dad, Dad whose now been missing for a month, while they mess around here, having breakdowns and not getting on with the job like they should be, not getting their priorities right. Dad would totally have their balls for this.

He sinks down onto his bed, throwing aside a pair of jeans in disgust. They’ve got to be Dean’s, all ripped and torn about the knees and caked in mud, Dean can never be bothered to take care of his clothes. He wants to hit something, shoot something, fight, all of his body itching like he needs it, like he’s some sort of freaking adrenalin junkie, and who the fuck knows – he probably is. It’s not like their life don’t provide plenty of opportunity for it. At least, he can manage the drink bit. He hesitates for a second, then shrugs, grabs his jacket and the car keys. Dean won’t notice his absence for a while yet. He’s gonna be far too busy comforting Sam, (and he so doesn’t want to think about that too deeply), they won’t even notice he’s gone AWOL. And hell, he needs a drink. He deserves it.

He curls his fingers around the car keys and heads outside.

 

**

 

Dad’s not in Blackwater Ridge. It’s just some dumbass kids gone camping. And, man, if Ross had a dollar for every idiot they’ve saved who’s been on a freaking camping trip, he’d be a very rich man.

Dean seems to perk up again, though, making nice with the cute chick. Sam, on the other hand, does not perk up, watching Dean and the girl with a total jealous bitch look when he’s not too busy brooding.

“I’ve gotta find Dad,” he tells them after they’ve said goodbye to cute chick and her dumbass brothers. “I’ve gotta find Jess’s killer. It’s the only thing I can think about.” His voice cracks as he speaks and he looks broken again, and God, Ross is not sure how much more of Broken Sam he can take, even Bitchy Sam is an improvement on this.

Dean takes it all in calmly, says, “Okay, well, we’re gonna find him.”

“Yeah, we’ll find him,” Ross adds, sounding confident, though honestly, he’s started feeling unsure about that. Most of the time he pushes the thoughts to the back of his mind, but occasionally, they seep through: where is Dad? Why has no one heard from him in over a month? Why is he not answering his phone? Endless questions going round and round his head when he’s not, like, thinking of something else.

And Sammy… God, he’s the same moody bitch Ross remembers, only worse, now that he has a real and proper reason for the never-fucking-ending angst, and not just the epic lameness that Ross remembers. And he wants to be understanding and sympathetic, really, he does, but Sam’s so tiring, like an emo succubus, taking up all Dean’s attention all the fucking time that Ross can’t stop feeling nostalgic for the days when Sam was miles away at college, when it was just him and Dean. And, of course, that just makes him feel guilty, because despite everything, _Sam is his brother,_ and he’s just lost the love of his life who was seriously hot and totally didn’t deserve to die, not like that, burned up on the ceiling.

He watches Sam stride away, back towards the Impala, back and shoulders all hunched over as usual. Dean’s given him the keys, letting him drive again, one of his many cheer-up-Sammy attempts, and that’s just not fair.

“Why you letting him drive?”

“Huh?”

“You never let anyone else drive. You never let me drive.“

“Dude!” Dean cuts him off with a glare before he’s stomping off after Sam.

 

**

 

There’s a dead spirit haunting a lake in Wisconsin, a demon who likes possessing pilots and causing plane crashes in Pennsylvania, and Bloody Mary, like, the real Bloody Mary haunting the mirrors of various stupid teenagers in Ohio. Sam plays the martyr and attempts to draw her out with his deep, dark, secret pain while Dean gets into a brawl with a security guard, and Ross smashes up some antique mirrors. He’s usually pretty down with the random meaningless violence, and destroying loads of antique mirrors definitely counts as random meaningless violence. But this time, it falls flat. Maybe it’s cause the broken glass is sharp and gets fucking everywhere, or it could just be because bleeding eye sockets are totally gross and way fucked-up, even for them.

The whole thing makes him feel weird and disappointed, and when the three of them climb back into the car, they have matching bloody tears crusting their cheeks. Dean looks between them all, grunts, “God, could we be any more dysfunctional?”

Sam snorts bitterly, and Ross wipes the blood off his face with his sleeve, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to be hiding? It’s not like their family ever gave any of them space to go off and develop their own big dark secrets, and he and Dean have practically been together 24/7 for the last few years. Okay, yeah, there is that one massive, life-changing secret that Dean and Sam share – the one that makes Ross's stomach roll over and his chest feel tight and painful when he thinks about it – but that’s not a secret, he’s known about that for years, though Dean and Sam _don’t know that he knows_. Maybe that’s what this freaky mirror bitch could be getting at? But that raises more fucking questions that it answers, and Ross is too goddamn tired to think it through, so he doesn’t. He pushes it to the back of his mind along with everything else.

After Bloody Mary, comes Sam’s hot blond friend and her framed-by-a-shapeshifter, loser brother. They drive to St Louis, and Sam greets her with hugs and long boring stories about people Ross and Dean have never heard of. She leads them into her parents' impressive mansion, sliding her hands into the back pockets of her pants, and okay, so she could do with eating a couple of sandwiches, but he’d still hit it. He glances at Dean, Dean is eyeing her too, and Ross can tell from the look on his brother’s face that he’s having exactly the same thought. He catches Dean’s eye and raises an eyebrow, Dean smirks back at him, and for a moment, it feels like the old days.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get a chance to piss off Sammy by hooking up with his hot skinny friend because in a motherfucking crazy turn of events, the shapeshifter impersonates Dean and has him framed for murder, and then Dean shoots him, his own evil double.

Dean’s extra quiet on the drive out of St Louis, listening to Johnny Cash the entire way (never a good sign) and they end up holing up in a motel just across the state line in Illinois.

“Great. So now I’m officially dead, right?” Dean says.

“Looks like,” says Sam. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, sorry about that, dude,” adds Ross.

“Fuckin’ awesome,” bitches Dean, ignoring the two of them and stomping out the motel room, banging the door behind him and taking the car (their only means of transport) off to the nearest bar.

Sam turns to Ross with a look of concern. Ross shrugs, Dean’ll get over it, Dean always does. Dean’s bad moods don’t usually last very long. He picks up the remote and starts surfing the pay-per-view.

“Oh, no fucking way!” whines Sam, and he’s obviously gotten over his concern for Dean pretty fucking quickly because he’s not looking concerned now, he’s just looking pissed. “You are not watching porn with me in the same room.”

“I wasn’t gonna watch porn, you freak. I was lookin’ for a movie.”

“Oh right.” Sam looks mollified and makes a grab for the remote lying in Ross’s hand. He doesn’t succeed. “What? Just give it here, Ross. Let me have a look.”

“Uh, no?”

Sam scowls but sits back on his bed, watching Ross scroll through the pathetic list of titles. “Oh, man, there’s like nothing here. Oh – awesome. _Gladiator_.”

“You’ve seen it about seventy goddamn times.”

“What? No I fuckin’ haven’t, Sammy!”

“Yeah. You have. And it’s _Sam_!”

“Get over yourself!” Sam glares at him – Ross ignores it. “Anyway, what’ve you got against _Gladiator_? It’s a fuckin’ awesome movie!”

“Apart from the fact you’ve seen it seventy times already? Well, one, Russell Crowe – the guy couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag. Two – the storyline makes zero sense and three – it sucks!”

“What you talkin’ about? The storyline’s about a guy getting revenge for the death of his wife. Something we can understand I would’ve thought.”

Sam snorts, “Yeah. Another reason I don’t want to watch it.”

“It won best picture Oscar,” Ross points out.

“So did Titanic.”

“Aha! So you wanna watch Titanic, huh?”

“No. No, I don’t. Just – watch what you want, I’m gonna do some work.” Sam slides off the bed, picks Dean’s laptop up off the floor where it’s been resting, and opens it up with a self-righteous click.

Ross makes a face at his back and orders _Gladiator_.

Dean comes back about three hours later, stumbling through the door with pink glassy eyes, obviously half-parts drunk and half-parts stoned, babbling something about a hippy college chick doing an interpretive dance to _Shine On You Crazy Diamond._

“…And, you know how in the movies and on TV when hot chicks get up and dance in the middle of the bar, it’s all hot and steamy – like, whoa, Salma Hayek in that awesome scene in _From Dusk Till Dawn_ – though minus the big-ass snake, because, dude, _creepy_ , well, in real life it’s not. Hot. Not hot. No, it’s fuckin’ embarrassing. And seriously, I was like, where do I look? Because her tits were kinda small and, dude, Pink Floyd? What the fuck?”

He makes a hilariously confused face, puts his hand in the pocket of his jacket, and takes out a baggie containing three fat rolled joints which he holds up with an enormous grin. “Still, she wasn’t totally a waste of my best lines.”

“Aw, shit, awesome,” Ross says, “I haven’t been high in, like, fuckin’ ages.”

Dean smirks, throws himself onto the bed beside Sam. “You wanna get high, Sammy?”

Sam’s still got the laptop on his knee and he’s looking annoyed, but it’s a fake kind of annoyance, a sort of indulgent _I’m so freaking mature, unlike you losers_ kind of annoyance. Dean leans into him and nuzzles his forehead against Sam’s huge shoulder, and Ross is suddenly worried, Dean is handsy when he’s high, make that handsy and completely uninhibited, which means that this has the potential to go somewhere that Ross just doesn’t want to know about, like, ever.

Sam sighs like the big ole martyr he thinks he is, nudges Dean away with his elbow, shutting the laptop. “Aw, what the hell,” he says, and Dean grins, wide and blissful.

“That’s my Sammy.” Dean looks up at Ross, beckons him over, “You too. C’mere, kiddo.”

Ross slips onto the end of the bed, watches Dean spark up with a quick flick of his Zippo, taking a massive inhale which he holds in for ages, his face going scarily beet red before he exhales.

“Aww, dude, awesome shit,” he breathes, handing off the joint to Sam.

Sam looks at him for a moment before shrugging and taking it. Sam knows how to do this. Hell, this is not the first time the three of them have gotten high together like this. Since Sam left, he and Dean have done it a few times, though always after a hunt, saving it up like a special, well-done-us-we-didn’t-die treat, and always when Dad was away, as Dad’s attitude to drugs is seriously zero tolerance. If Dean’s anything like normal, then in about ten minutes, he’ll be singing Black Sabbath’s _Sweet Leaf_ , another half-hour after that, and he’ll be passed out, fully clothed. Dean has a concrete stomach for alcohol and any kinda food, but pot’s like his freaking kryptonite.

Dean stares at Sam as he takes the joint from him. He reaches out a hand to stroke across Sam’s hair, playing with the stupid curly ends.

“Gently,” he tells him.

Sam’s eyes are wide, Ross can see them darken as he inhales, pupils dilating. He coughs when he exhales and his eyes water, but he's still smiling.

“Fuck, Dean, s’strong shit.”

“You know me; only get the best for my boys.”

Dean smiles, soft and slow and completely wasted, while Sam stares back at him, their eyes locked together, sappy and gross and like Ross’s not even in the fucking room. Dean takes the joint from Sam without looking away and it’s like the air is fucking _crackling_ between them and Ross doesn’t even think that that description works in real life, except here, it’s, like… he can see it,' cause they’re about two moves away from jumping each other’s bones and now… now he doesn’t want to be here anymore. He doesn’t want to get high anymore, not like this. Not like the odd one out, the third, or is it fifth, fucking wheel? The extra, unwanted brother, the _half_ brother. And it’s just not fair because he wants to get high, he wants the buzz, he fucking deserves it, but not like this.

He stands up quickly, _too_ quickly, scanning the room for his boots, coat, whatever he needs to get the fuck outta there, like, soon as fucking possible. Before they start molesting each other, fucking going for it, right there on the bed, the disgusting, perverted freaks.

“You okay there, kiddo?” Dean says, his voice is choked and raspy and he’s holding the joint out to Ross, like, way to finally notice that he’s actually in the fucking room.

Ross hesitates, glancing between the smoking spliff in Dean’s fingers and Dean’s face, the soft, welcoming smile and glazed, pink eyes as he stares up at Ross from the bed. And, fuck it, he does want to get high. It’s been months, he wants to get off his fucking face and he wants to do it now.

“I’m fine,” he snaps out, grabbing the spliff from Dean’s hand.

Dean raises an eyebrow, “Oookay then.”

Sam sniggers, and Dean smiles again, still looking up at Ross with his eyes wide open, lashes long and stupid looking, like a freaking dog or a puppy or something lame like that. It makes Ross feel vicious, makes him want to strike out and hurt his brother.

“You gonna sit back down? Making me nervous hovering about up there,” says Dean.

Ross scowls and sits back down on the end of the bed. Minutes pass as he smokes, willing himself to get stoned quickly, luckily this seems to be happening. Sam’s right, this is seriously strong shit.

“Gimme.” Sam makes a grabby gesture with his fingers, and as Ross passes the joint back to him, he notices for the first time that Sam’s other hand is resting on Dean’s leg, just above his knee, fingers stroking gently against the inseam of Dean’s jeans.

Dean’s completely relaxed, practically out of it already, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling as he breathes. Ross stares at Sam’s hand, it’s pretty mesmerizing the way Sam’s long fingers brush up and brush down, and it probably feels amazing, the kinda touch that could make you hard enough to cut glass. He wonders suddenly if that’s how it used to be between them: if Sam used to tease Dean with soft touches and filthy words, or if it was the other way around? Dean always seemed to him to be more of a cock-tease, Sam he always imagined as being the sort of sonofabitch who would just throw you down onto the nearest flat surface and fuck the shit out of you.

 _Jesus_ , did he really just think that?

Ross swallows, his face flushing red with embarrassment. The three of them have obviously been spending far too long in just each other’s company. He forces himself to look away. It doesn’t help; he can still see Sam’s hand, huge and possessive, on Dean’s leg and the relaxed, slack look around Dean’s mouth in his head, like an image imprinted on his brain.

He can’t look away for ever, though, so he turns around again. Dean’s eyes are still closed, his head tipped back against the wall, throat exposed and body angled towards Sam, Sam’s hand still resting on Dean’s leg. Sam’s smoking, humming under his breath, looking content and easy in a way that just isn’t normal for Sam, or hasn’t been for the past couple of months.

“Hey,” he says, catching Ross’s eye. “You want anymore?”

Ross takes the joint from him without speaking. Sam’s stupid long fingers brush against his own and Ross jerks his hand away as if he’s been burned. He’s supposed to feel relaxed, but he isn’t, he’s so far from it, all tense and jittery, like he’s taken some bad E.

“C’mere,” slurs Dean.

Ross jerks his head up. Dean’s blinking at him from under half-closed eyes, a dreamy look on his face, and he wonders just how much Dean smoked before he got back from the bar because, man, Dean is _wasted_.

Ross gulps for a moment before shifting up the bed. It doesn’t occur to him to say no, he’s so used to just doing whatever Dean tells him. Dean’s moved even closer to Sam, made room for Ross on his other side, he holds out his arm and lets Ross crawl into the space. It’s really warm and Dean feels both soft and hard against his side.

“You okay?” asks Dean. Ross nods, not looking at him. He suddenly feels like crying, either that, or hitting something. He still feels wrong, unhappy in his skin in a way he doesn’t remember ever feeling before. Adolescents are supposed to feel like that, though he never did, he always felt like himself, Ross Christopher Winchester, exactly like the person he was supposed to be. Now though.

It’s probably Sam that’s doing it. Sam and Dean, the two of them, being all… like this. And he kinda wants to punish them for that, but Dean’s so warm and big and comforting, and it all feels exactly the same as it used to when he was a kid. When he would curl up on the shitty motel couches with Dean to watch horror movies while Sammy did homework and Dad wrote shit up in his journal (when he was there). And this is – it’s confusing, because he can’t think straight about this, about Dean… because Dean smells exactly the same as he always used to, like he’s always smelled, of tobacco and leather, and that’s Dad’s smell too, and it’s all making his chest hurt, though, that's probably just the drugs.

“Dean, are we all snuggling?” Sam says.

“Doesn’t count when you’re high,” slurs Dean.

“Okay, but I’m so ragging you about this tomorrow,” says Sam.

“Shut up, Sammy,” says Dean fondly, prizing the joint from Sam’s outstretched fingers, it’s almost burnt out now, just maybe one toke left. He takes it in, lingering over the exhale, starting to hum under his breath, then singing, the words slowly taking shape in Ross’s head.

_“When I first met you, didn’t realize, I can't forget you, for your surprise…”_


	3. Chapter 3

It’s been three months since Sam joined them, and Dad is still missing. They celebrated both Dean's and Ross’s birthdays with no call from Dad, not even a freaking text message. Nothing. And, sure, it’s hardly the first time Dad has forgotten one of their birthdays, but to forget both of them? Usually, he manages at least one. Hell, maybe he’ll show for Sammy’s birthday. In four month’s time.

Dean calls Dad’s cell from a gas station in Iowa, just to let his familiar deep rumble wash over him, _Call my son, Dean,_ says Dad’s disembodied voice, and Dean feels a stab of panic and resentment at the authority in it. As if he’d be able to fix anything when Dad’s still missing and everything’s so overwhelmingly fucked up.

Sam and Ross are bickering when he gets back to the car. He grits his teeth, tosses bags of popcorn at their heads, hoping the distraction of snacks will shut them the hell up, except Ross picks up one bag with a confused look, asking, “Uh, Dean, what the fuck is this?”

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like fuckin’ popcorn. But dude, popcorn? That’s for movies and shit.”

Dean twists around in the front seat, bores holes into Ross’s skull.

“You want something else, you go on in there and buy it. That’s what they had, so that’s what I bought. Now, shut the fuck up!”

Ross does, glaring balefully at him in the driver’s mirror, but at least he’s quiet. In the shotgun seat, Sam looks amused, crunching on his popcorn and staring out the passenger side window with a half-smile flickering at the corner of his mouth.

“So, what happened between you and that chick?” Dean asks fifty miles later. “You gonna spill?”

“Huh?” says Sam. “What chick?”

“God, the hot preacher’s daughter obviously,” groans Ross from the backseat. “Jesus, sometimes I can’t fucking believe you _ever_ got laid. And I can’t believe she was hot for you. Not when I was standing right there!”

“She was hot for me? I was just being friendly. She’d been through a lot.”

“Fuck,” says Ross. “Just – are you sure we’re fuckin’ related? Because, _dude_.”

Sam rolls his eyes and ignores him, continuing his epic staring contest with the dull Iowan scenery. Dean glances at him, there’s an ache somewhere in the pit of his stomach, the memory of the way that girl looked at Sam, her smiles and fake woe-is-me hair flicking that kinda made him want to leave her to the mercies of the hookman _she_ conjured up with _her_ daddy issues. He knows he’s being bitter and petty, but she was all over Sammy like a goddamn rash, and seriously, uptight hypocritical chicks like that are about the last thing they need.

“Where next?” asks Ross, shifting on the backseat so he’s sprawled out, head pooled on one of Sam’s hoodies and legs bent awkwardly into the far footwell.

“Sam? What we got?” Dean prompts.

“Mysterious death in Oklahoma,” says Sam. “Construction worker. Police have no leads.”

“Alright then. Okla-fucking-homa,” says Dean.

 

 

Dean kinda wants to kill the realtor chick after she mistakes him and Sam for a couple, because, man, _awkward_ … He just gives silent thanks that Ross wasn’t there to witness it. He’s been feeling Ross’s eyes on him and Sam ever since Palo Alto, and while he’s sure their youngest brother doesn’t know about them - they were always so careful and Dad definitely didn’t know, and if Ross had found out then he would've told spilt in a heartbeat - there’s a niggling doubt lodged at the back of his mind whispering that maybe, just maybe, Ross isn’t as ignorant as Dean hopes he is.

He pushes the thought away, watches Ross on the other side of the yard, making time with one of the neighbors’ teenage daughters, who's wearing a tiny miniskirt and tube top despite the shitty weather and might as well have jailbait stamped on her forehead. He raises an eyebrow when Ross catches him looking and Ross smirks back at him, using Dean’s own look, the little smartass. Sam calls it karmic justice – Dean's own fault – bitching away in his superior Sammy fashion: _you know he gets the attitude from you, Dean, he gets all that shit from you_. Dean doesn’t care. He likes to see the similarities when he looks at Ross, the gestures and speech patterns that Ross has modeled on him. Sam and Ross look so alike that no one ever mistakes them for anything other than brothers, to their joint annoyance, but people have never done that with Dean, he always looked too different.

“Hey,” says Sam, nudging him with his shoulder. “We done here? 'Cause I think Littlest Bro is about to get the shit kicked out of him. Jailbait over there happens to be the local sheriff’s daughter.” He cocks his head in the direction of an extremely pissed looking, middle-aged guy in a rain slicker who’s watching Ross’s progress with Jailbait Girl a little too closely for Dean’s liking. “Seriously, how did you two manage before me?”

Dean curses under his breath, strides across the yard towards Ross.

“Hey, Stud-u-like. We’re leaving! Stat!”

Ross doesn’t protest, waves and grins at the chick on his way out. She giggles and waves back at him. Sam rolls his eyes and goes to body-check Ross which Ross dodges easily, snapping out: “Just cause you’re keeping it locked up like fuckin’ Fort Knox, Sammy, don’t go saltin’ _my_ game.”

“We were stopping you from getting the shit kicked out of you,” says Dean.

“We’re supposed to be low profile, asshat,” adds Sam.

Ross snorts again, but this time it’s definitely false bravado, 'cause he’s wearing that little boy, smacked down look. He’s unusually silent on the ride back to the motel, sulking and staring out the window in an eerie impression of Sam at his most emo.

It’s at times like these that Dean remembers that Ross is only twenty-one. He’s really just still a kid, in so many ways. Unlike Sam, Ross has never been apart from him or Dad, he’s never been left on his own and he’s never clamored, as Sam used to do, for his own space. He never even wanted his own room, (which was just as well, because there was no way he’d ever have gotten one). When Dean thinks of his youngest brother, he pictures a little kid with tousled black hair, running after him and Sammy, screaming: _“Wait! Deeeeeeeen! Saaaaammmeeee! Deeeeeen! Wait for meeeee!”_ Or, he thinks of the time he took him bowling for his eighth birthday, Ross pulling at his arm and jabbering the whole time: “Sammy’s not coming, is he? This is just me and you, right, Dean, right, Dean? Just me and you? No Sammy?”

Ross longed for his and Dad's approval like Sam used to long for his good grades. He bought into the hunting lifestyle, into the entire fucking Winchester credo, completely and utterly. There was never any doubt for Ross that what they were doing wasn't the right thing, no niggling suspicion at the back of his mind that maybe Dad didn’t love him as much as he loved Dad. Ross believed Dad was a hero who could never do anything wrong, and he adored him. And Dad adored Ross, there was never any doubt there. Ross was Dad’s favorite. Maybe it was because of those missing years when Ross was lost, or maybe it was because Ross wasn’t Mary’s child, that when Dad looked at his youngest son, he would never see his murdered wife’s eyes or her nose or her freckles staring back up at him. Or maybe it was just because Ross never fucked anything up like Dean or answered back like Sam.

Dean never begrudged Ross Dad’s affection. Not even when Ross would crawl into Dad’s lap and Dad would wrap his arms around him, squeezing him and crooning, _“My boy, my boy,”_ into Ross’s hair. It made something hurt in Dean’s chest to watch them, but he loved his brother and he was grateful for the way Ross could calm Dad like that, curbing his drinking and making him a softer more malleable version of the Dad Dean was used to.

He sometimes wondered how Sam felt about Dad and Ross’s relationship, but Sammy never seemed to care, Sammy was self-sufficient and distant, burying himself in books whenever he could get away with it. Ever since Sam had found out about hunting, Sam had been like that: keeping Dad at a distance, his eyes rounded in suspicion every time Dad told them they were on the move again. When Dad did try with him, asking him about school or homework, Sam would give one-word answers, speaking to Dad as if he were a stranger. It hurt Dean to see the distance between Sammy and Dad because he knew that it hurt Dad, and he loved his father so much.

 

Ross gets over his little snit pretty quickly. He’s not like Sam in that respect, he doesn’t brood for long, easily cheered up with fights and food, explosions and beer, and thank God, because dealing with two Sammys right about now is more than Dean can handle./p>

“Can I just say that that was _lame_?” Ross says, giving his opinion on the entire hunt with this pissy look on his face that makes him resemble Sam more than ever. Seriously, sometimes it’s downright creepy. “Fuck, man, it’s not like we accomplished anything?”

“We saved that family,” points out Sam. Okay, so obviously it’s Sam’s turn to be the reasonable brother today.

“Yeah, but it’s not like they’re gonna stop building shit here, is it? Someone’s always gonna to do that, and that lame-ass Native American curse is always gonna get them. Don’t you just think.” Ross breaks off, looks thoughtful for a second, scrunching up his nose and squinting at them.

“What?”

“Nothin’. S’just, sometimes don’t you just wonder if it’s worth it? Not, like, what we do and shit. But sometimes – with some hunts? Half the people we save – they don’t even fuckin’ say thanks.”

“Oh God, not you as well,” groans Dean. “I expect that shit from Sam, dude, not from you.”

“Hey!” protests Sam.

Dean rolls his eyes and unlocks the car. “Jesus. Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

 

 

They’re in a bar somewhere outside of Athens, Iowa, and Dean and Ross have got two college students hanging onto their every word as Ross describes their father’s vineyard and their extensive, highly profitable, family wine-making business up in Northern Cali.

“So you two are, like, brothers?” One of them asks, he thinks her name’s Tanya, or maybe Michelle, or perhaps the other one’s Michelle. “'Cause you don’t look much alike.”

Dean glances towards the corner of the room where Sam took up residence as soon as they arrived. He’s got the laptop open in front of him and has been nursing the same beer the entire time they’ve been there. He’s also got that unhappy crease between his eyebrows that Dean has come to dread. Dean would give a lot to see Sam smile and laugh and be genuinely happy. Well, it ain’t gonna happen tonight.

“So, are you in town for tonight, or leaving tomorrow?” The other girl asks.

“Well, that depends,” says Ross with that dimpled smirk of his, big brown eyes wide and twinkling. Seriously, Littlest Bro has got some moves on him. “We’re kinda flexible,” he adds. “Right, Deano?”

“Right,” Dean says, widening his own grin and exchanging a quick look with Ross, as he nods in agreement.

They’re both hot. Maybe a bit young for his tastes, but Dean’s not that picky. He’ll screw anything hot and between 18 and 45, in fact some of the best nights of his life were in the company of women who’d long gotten past the “right” side of forty, and right now, at this moment, he needs to get laid. It’s been three months, his longest dry patch ever since he lost his virginity. Twin that with the permanently distracting presence of Sam, and you get a raging case of blue balls. Yeah, he needs to get laid bad.

“Are we getting out of here?”

“Jesus – God! Sam?”

Sam’s leaning over them, looking pissed-off, hand clamped down on Dean’s shoulder, a little harder than necessary.

“We’ve got an early start tomorrow.”

Dean bites back a retort and shrugs off Sam’s hand. Ross is trying vainly to signal FUCK OFF to Sam using just his eyebrows, but Sam isn’t biting. Dean put up with Sam's cock-blocking a hell of a lot better in the days when he knew it would lead to possessive incestuous sex – now, it’s just annoying

"Dude, we’re kinda busy here,” he says.

The girls meanwhile are eying Sam greedily, which makes Dean like them all the more. But he knows Sam, and there’s no way he’s going to be up for anything those kinda looks are hoping for.

“Now, you and you,” one of them – definitely Michelle – points between Sam and Ross, “you look like brothers. You are, aren’t you?”

“Oh yeah, this is Sam, our _other_ brother,” says Ross, trying (and mostly failing) to hide the sneer threatening to knock the good-times smile off his face.

“Wow, your parents must’ve had _great_ genes,” says the other girl, Tanya, a breathless note to her voice. Dean gives her an approving smile – she’s definitely his favorite – and she’s kinda right, they’re _made_ of good genes.

“ _Dean_.”

The pressure from Sam’s hand on his shoulder gets harder, and Dean grits his teeth. He can hear Ross talking to the girls, voice all casual and dismissive. “You don’t wanna worry about Sam, he’s a Christian Scientist and he’s taken a vow of celibacy. It’s tragic really, he doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t fuck. Turned out kinda useful for us though - me and Deano do all the wine-tasting shit and he's our designated.”

Ross makes a hilarious _what-can-you-do_ face while Sam scowls and turns deliberately away from them, grabbing onto Dean’s jacket and tugging him away from the girls.

“Look, are we going or not? Cause if you two are gonna stay, then I want the car keys, Dean.”

“Oh! You’re not leaving, are you?” Tanya asks. She slips off her barstool, soft, naked thigh brushing against Dean’s leg. Man, he’s going to fucking _kill_ Sam if he fucks this up for him. “C’mon, stay a while. It’s so early!”

“Dean,” says Sam.

Dean fakes a smile at the girl. “Just give me a minute, sweetheart.”

She nods, eyes narrowing as he walks Sam from the bar.

“Seriously, dude! What is your problem?” he hisses when they get outside.

Sam bristles, pulls his arm out of Dean’s grasp. “My problem? What about you and Ross – spinning those poor girls some bullshit stories about being fucking vineyard owners?”

“You overheard us?”

“Why? Are you ashamed? Cause you should be! I would be!”

Dean shakes his head in disbelief. “On the scale of shit to be ashamed of, I think making up some bullshit tale about growing grapes ranks pretty damn low.” He raises his eyes, meets Sam's gaze. “Considering some of the shit we’ve done.”

Sam blanches, but it doesn’t stop him, not much can stop Sammy when he’s got something to say.

“That’s so not the point!”

“What is the point? What are you trying to say?”

Sam hesitates for a second, and Dean thinks of all those moments of not saying anything, repressing every damn thing, keeping everything so locked up and feeling the words and moments hanging between them all the damn time, like the ghost of the dead girl on the ceiling, the one that’s been riding on Sam’s shoulder this entire time, the one that just won’t fucking _quit_. He's been trying to do the right thing, give Sam space to grieve and get his head straight. Or at least he thinks he has, but whatever he's been trying it isn't not working, not for him, and definitely not for Sammy. Only, he's not sure what else he can do.

Sam’s mouth moves, no sound coming out. He looks awful, like shit, and Dean’s losing. In this battle – whatever – he’s having with Sam's grief, he’s losing.

“I just wish.”

“ _What_? What do you want, Sam?”

“I wish you wouldn’t sleep with these random women. I hate it! I always hated it. And I know I have no right to hate it, but I just. I hate it.”

Dean’s speechless, not sure what to say. Sam shrugs, a painful jerk of his shoulders. He looks so miserable and beaten down and Dean can feel that lockbox around his heart tighten.

“Okay,” he says softly. “If it means that much to you, then… I won’t. I won’t do that anymore.”

Sam chokes out a laugh, bitter and so, so not funny. “That’s not fair to you.”

“I’ll survive.”

Sam shakes his head, his eyes are glittering, the light from the bar transforming them into cats eyes. Dean watches him, feeling hopeless, an overwhelming sense of this-is-never-going-to-be-okay; he knows with a growing sense of inevitability that a year, five years, ten fucking years from now, this is going to be how it is. This thing between him and Sam, he’s never gonna get over it.

He slides his pack of cigarettes out his pocket, if things are going to be this tense, then he needs a fucking cigarette. He lights up with a quick snap of his lighter, inhaling greedily.

Sam makes a face at him, says, “You’re so gross.”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, whatever.”

“Dean, look you don’t have to. I mean, I get it. I do. The random hook-ups--"

“Can we not talk about this?” Dean interrupts. He turns his face away from Sam, grateful for the cigarette in his fingers giving him something to do with his hands. “I’m gonna finish this. Then I’m gonna go on inside and tell Ross that we’re heading off. Here.” He reaches into his pocket for the car keys, tosses them over to Sam who fumbles the catch. “You can wait in the car.”

He doesn’t give Sam a chance to respond, but takes off, striding quickly across the parking lot and back towards the bar. He slots the cigarette into his mouth and shoulders the heavy doors open. The music seems louder than earlier, as if the place has shifted into another gear, voices, clinks of glass, pinball machines, even the goddamn pool table, everything’s gotten louder and brasher.

He catches Ross’s eye through the crowd of people at the bar and waves at him to come over.

“Where the fuck you been?” snaps Ross.

Dean ignores the question, he looks over Ross’s shoulder, towards the two girls at the bar where Ross has just left them. They’re still hot and he still wants to fuck them, either of them, except he’s not going to. Not this time, 'cause Sam’s outside and Sam needs him.

“We’re leaving. You’ll be okay to take a cab? We’re at the Dewdrop, remember.”

“You’re fuckin’ leaving me here?” Ross’s eyes narrow dangerously. “Oh, no fuckin’ way, Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes, drops his cigarette butt to the floor. He grinds it out with his boot heel and digs into his pocket for his wallet.

“Here, you need any more cash?”

Ross hisses through his teeth, his eyes still flashing anger. He grabs Dean’s wallet from his hand and fishes out a few crumpled twenties, pushing the wallet back at Dean with a snarl.

“Go have fun _with Sam_.”

Dean’s stunned for a second, shocked by the viciousness in his little brother’s voice. He watches him push back through the crowd towards the girls. Ross throws his arms around them as he approaches, leather-clad arms encircling their thin, smooth shoulders, twisting his head to throw a dark look back at Dean. Dean glares back at him, he’s pissed now, the way Ross just took the money from his fucking wallet, as if it was his due, the fucking _entitlement_ in the way he curled the bills into his fingers. Money that _he_ earned, money that _he_ won, because Ross has never earned a fucking penny in his goddamn life. Ross has always had father or big brother to give him everything he ever needed. Ross is a spoon-fed, ungrateful, little shit.

Dean curls his lip, and shoulders his way back through the crowd until he’s outside. He stands on the porch and lights another cigarette, puffing away angrily as he clomps back across the lot.

“Was he-–“ Sam starts as he gets in the car.

“Don’t say a fuckin’ word!”

“Jesus, fine. Whatever,” snits Sam, rolling his eyes.

Dean growls and pushes the keys into the ignition. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel, momentarily comforted by the feel of his baby under his hands. His cigarette is balanced between his first two fingers, smoke curling upwards and filling the claustrophobic space. Any moment now Sam is going to bitch at him and get him to throw it out the window, he can almost hear the words already, feel the irritable weary tone of voice Sam will use stabbing at him between the shoulder blades. He hisses out a sigh and cranks down the driver’s side window.

“Dean?” prompts Sam, sounding confused. “What’re we waiting for?”

Dean ignores him, throws the half-smoked butt out the window. Nothing, they’re waiting for nothing. Ross will go home with one of those girls, or maybe both of those girls, and he’ll have sex. He’ll fuck them all night long, and maybe they’ll suck him as well, and he’ll get back in the morning all satiated and satisfied with that stupid, gummy look on his face that Dean has seen a hundred times before. And Dean will have to just put up with a crappy shower and his right hand. Again.

“Hey,” says Sam softly.

Dean tenses, fumbles at the keys still stuck in the ignition.

“Hey,” Sam repeats. He lays his palm on Dean’s knee and squeezes.

Dean jumps, he actually fucking jumps. Normally, it would be embarrassing, and he’d be embarrassed for himself, but Sam is touching him. Sam is sliding his hand up Dean’s leg, slow and soft and smooth, and Dean’s getting hard, his dick is responding and his breath feels like it’s trapped in his lungs, like his throat is closing up. He feels Sam shift closer, edging along the bench seat.

“Hey, look at me.”

Dean turns his head. Sam’s eyes are so dark Dean can’t see the color of his irises, just the lights of the parking lot and bar’s tacky neon sign reflected in them. Sam’s whole face is in shadow, like a black and white photograph, the long line of his throat, grey and beige and reflected orange glow, he looks beautiful and eerie, and so fucking desirable that Dean can’t breathe.

Sam smiles, he looks embarrassed, his aw-shucks smile that works so well on gullible civilians, but this is the real deal, this is the real Sammy.

“Hey. I wanna. Uh, I _wanna_ , Dean.”

He swallows and Dean tracks the movement of Sam’s throat, that gorgeous, soft ripple. _God_ , he wants to put his mouth on that spot more than he ever remembers wanting anything in his life.

“Oh Jesus, Sammy,” he moans, and then Sam is moving, pressing him back until he’s flat against the driver’s door, window still half-cranked down, Sam’s mouth fucking _attacking_ him, biting and licking and sucking at his face, at his jaw, at his throat, his neck. Dean is trembling, coming apart underneath him, blood thumping, breathing gone to shit, and the only thing he can hear in his head is yes, _yes_.

Sam raises his head, his hair’s a tangled, black mess, his eyes are animal slits and his mouth is one big flash of brilliant teeth. Dean fists his hands into Sam’s hair and tugs, crashing their mouths back together until his tongue _finally_ is _finally_ in Sam’s mouth and Sam’s lips are _finally_ sucking desperately on his tongue and Sam’s tongue is _finally_ in Dean’s mouth, swooping and mapping and licking _finally_ over his teeth.

_“God, Dean, God, Dean.”_

Sam's words are swallowed as he gasps for breath, scrambling their mouths apart and fisting his fingers into Dean’s jacket.

“Off, Dean, get it off!”

It’s a struggle in the confined space, elbows and arms catching, but this is not the first time they've done this in the Impala. Sam pulls impatiently at his jacket again and Dean can’t help the snort of laughter escaping as he wriggles out of it, pouncing back on Sam and pinning him to the seat, or as much of him he can get down onto the seat. Sam’s hands slide under Dean’s waistband, tug his t-shirt out of his jeans, smooth up his back, stretching the thin cotton fabric as he pulls him closer. The steering wheel is somewhere around Dean’s hip, digging into his hip bone, but he’s barely aware of it, only caring that this is Sam beneath him, squirming and panting and fumbling at the zipper of Dean’s fly.

Dean gasps out loud when Sam’s fingers slide into his boxers and grab at his cock, and then Sam is jerking him, wrist twisted fiercely, breath ragged and hot against the side of Dean’s face.

“Sammy, wait, wait,” he pants, fumbling at Sam’s fly with his own hands, “let me do you, wait a second.”

Sam stops, squeezes Dean’s cock in his huge fist. Dean shudders at the sensation, fingers barely managing to work as he struggles with Sam’s button fly. He doesn’t bother getting Sam’s pants all the way down, just jamming his hand in there and fisting Sam’s cock, the waistband of Sam’s boxers catching around his wrist. Sam moans loudly and lets his head fall all the way back, eyes rolling back in his head.

Dean grins and places a kiss on the edge of his throat. “Open your eyes,” he tells him. Sam does, and Dean almost wants to come at the look in his brother’s eyes, 'cause he’s forgotten how intense it is, how overpowering, how a messy jerk-off session with Sam where they barely even get their coats off can be as hot as a threesome with the hottest, blondest and bustiest bunny girls.

“ _Dean,_ ” Sam moans, and Dean bites his lip, feeling himself shudder to his climax, Sam gripping and clutching at him hopelessly as he trembles beneath him. He collapses on top of Sam, heart thumping like he’s just finished a five mile run, hand caught between their bodies, still half in Sam’s pants, covered in Sam’s thick, stringy come.

“Guh, dude, we need a shower,” he says.

Sam smiles tentatively, wriggles beneath him. “Yeah.”

Dean smiles back at him, feeling shy and embarrassed, though he shouldn’t be, it’s not like this is new to them. This is pretty damn tame compared to some of the things they used to do. But it feels different now, as if they’ve past something, or should that be _passed_ something?

Whatever, it’s too much to expect him to think properly now, not after the best orgasm he’s had in fucking months.

He wriggles stiffly off Sam, cranks the driver’s door open and spills out into the parking lot. He wipes his hand off on his t-shirt, making a piss-poor attempt to straighten his clothes, hearing the leather seat creak behind him as Sam does the same. He stares out across the lot and allows himself to smile: a big, dumb, blissed-out smile, an I-can’t-believe-that-just-happened smile, and, _goddamn it_ , he feels good. For the first time in fucking months, that horrible itchy feeling has disappeared, that heavy weight of knowing everything is fucked up and that he can’t do anything about it – it’s vanished. Oh, he knows it will be back, but for now, he’s gonna just savor the moment.

 

 

**

 

 

 

Ross doesn’t really remember the first time he met his father, the first time it all made sense in his head that this guy – this big dark-haired guy with the deep voice who’d come by to see his mom sometimes – was his dad. If his life were a movie, then there’d be a scene to explain it all, a flashback with sappy Home Sweet Home type music playing in the background, and his Mom would be there, all young and happy, leading him into a room by his little kid hand, Dad would be sitting on the couch, looking at him and smiling. _This is your father, Ross,_ she would say, and Dad would take his hand, pull him up into his lap and say, _Hey there, little guy_. Except Dad never called him that in his entire life.

He has a photo of his mom, like the one Dean and Sam have of theirs. Dad gave it to him a long time ago, telling him to keep it safe as it was the only one he had. She looks happy in it, smiling at the camera, her dark hair like a wavy halo around her head. But, whatever, it’s a photo, so of course she’s gonna smile and look happy, it means nothing, it doesn’t explain anything.

The photo is the only memory he does have of her, he’s forgotten her now, she left him before he turned four after all, so it’s only natural that he doesn’t remember. And after she left, there were the foster homes, which he doesn’t really remember either, just vague memories of lots of kids and fights and a dog called Buster. The first real, true memory he has is of Dad: Dad in the front of the Impala, driving like a crazy person on that all-important, life-changing night when Dad snatched him from the foster home. He remembers the feel of Dad’s big strong arms around him, the soft humming sound of the car as he lay on the backseat covered in Dad’s huge, leather coat which smelt just like him.

“I’ve been looking for you for a long time,” Dad said to him, and he kissed Ross on the forehead, the bristly feel of his chin against Ross’s cheek a totally new sensation. “Now go to sleep, Ross, my boy, and when you wake up we’ll be far away, and you can meet your brothers.”

He was five years old on that night, Sam was seven, and Dean was eleven. And it was just before Christmas, just before his birthday.

 

 

The girls are disappointed when he tells them that Dean’s gone, but they hide it well. In the end, Tanya leaves, but he’s not that bothered, he’s more interested in Michelle anyway, she’s got better tits. She takes him back to her dorm room, snickering that her roommate is out of town when they stumble drunkenly into the room.

“And she hates me,” she hisses, giggling and falling onto one of the beds. She props herself up, tugs at the hem of his jacket. “This is her bed, we should fuck in it.”

And, hell, yeah, Ross can work with that.

He tries to shut off his brain as he fucks her. He tries not to think about Dean and Sam together, back at the hotel room all night, about how Dean chose Sam over him, about how Dean _always_ chooses Sam over him.

She climbs into his lap and works herself up and down on his cock, those awesome tits jiggling in front of his face. She tosses her long dark hair, neck arching backwards, throat glistening with sweat. She looks like she’s in a soft porno, or a hip-hop video, and she obviously knows it, but it’s hot, so he fucks her harder, hears her breath coming in quick spasms and pants. When he shoots, he grips her hips tight, wanting to leave marks, and she howls, actually freaking _howls_. It’s weird, but again, yeah, pretty fucking intense.

“That was awesome,” she says afterwards. “You should stick around, we could do that again.”

He shrugs, he could stick around, they’re not working a job right now, and if he asked, he’s sure Dean and Sam would be okay with it. Fuck it, why should he even have to ask? He should just hang around here, fuck her all night long, all day tomorrow, he’s sure Dean and Sam can amuse themselves, the assholes.

She steals one of his cigarettes, and they smoke by the open window, 'cause they’re not supposed to smoke in the dorm rooms. “Though we all do it,” she tells him, “but you have to keep the window open, else the fire alarms go off.” The window is opposite another dorm, and with the light on behind them, he thinks that everyone in that dorm can see the two of them, sitting there, smoking, both of them naked. The thought is arousing, making his cock start to stir again, thinking of some geeky students sitting studying, noticing them, then jerking off. He should fuck her here next, right in front of this big open window, give them all a real show.

“You’re not really a vineyard owner, are you?” she says.

He thinks about lying again, but decides it’s not worth it, “Nah, s’just a story we use.”

“To get chicks?” she asks, looking amused. He nods, smirks at her. She tilts one eyebrow at him. “Seriously? You know you don’t need to do that. You’re hot. You and your brothers. You really don’t need to work that hard.”

She’s probably right, but it’s not about sealing the deal, 'cause, man, he _always_ seals the deal. It’s something else, it’s the game, it’s the chase, it’s seeing how far they can spin some bullshit story before someone figures them out. And, whatever, it’s how they’ve always operated, it's how Dean taught him to do it, and he’s always followed Dean’s lead. Anyway, what are they supposed to tell them? The truth? That they hunt and kill monsters for a living? Not even for a living, cause it’s not like they ever get fucking paid for it.

“So, what do you really do?” she asks.

He hesitates, then smirks at her. “If I told you that, then I’d have to kill you. And you are way too hot to die this young, baby.”

She snorts and elbows him. “You’re full of shit.” He laughs and she tosses the remains of her cigarette out the window. “Whatever, mystery man. You wanna go another round?”

 

 

Ross lost his virginity when he was fourteen. She was a friend of Sam’s, a study-buddy of his, kinda geeky and shy. All Sammy’s friends were like that – like him – total chess club nerds, even the girls. But some of them were weirdly hot, though what was even weirder was that they were always into Sam, though Sammy never seemed to pick up on it.

They were in Minnesota somewhere when it happened. He can’t remember the name of the town, though the high school where Sam went was called McKinley. Dad was away for a lot of that time, and Dean was working, real long shifts at an aerosol factory, assembly line shit that Dean hated, and Ross was stuck at the junior high, the building adjacent to Sam’s high school. After his school got out, half an hour before Sam’s, he would have to wait outside the high-school gates for him, 'cause Sam was the only one Dean permitted to have a key apart from himself.

“You come home together,” he told them the first morning he realized his shifts meant he wasn’t gonna be around when they got out of school. “Sammy, you make sure he’s with you, at all times, outside of school.” Sam nodded seriously; actually fucking agreeing for once, but then, Sammy totally got off on the times when he got to big-brother it all over Ross. “And Ross,” Dean bored his steely-Dad-impression look into him. “You damn well make sure you wait for him. Every night, after school. No going off on your own. If you do, then I’m gonna tell Dad. Got it?” They both nodded, Ross scowling into his Cheerios and Sam trying not to smile.

So, he was stuck waiting for Sam after school. And Sam was so fucking _slow_. Probably on purpose, probably just 'cause he knew Ross was waiting. He’d come out, usually reading if he was on his own, or surrounded by his gang of nerdy friends if he wasn’t, taking about physics or chemistry or fucking math for fuck’s sake. And then, that was worse, 'cause it meant they couldn’t go straight home, but instead, they’d go to this nearby diner where you could get huge pieces of pie and glasses of milk for a dollar. That was okay, though the pie wasn’t really that good, pastry like fucking cardboard. But eating was better than listening to Sam and his friends. Occasionally, they’d talk about interesting shit, comic books or movies or TV shows and he’d pull off the headphones to Dean’s old battered Discman and join in.

This chick was called Lucy and she was really into math and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, which was cool by him, he fucking loved that show. Unfortunately for her, she was also really into Sam, the poor deluded fool. She would smile whenever he spoke to her, blush when he complimented her on something (usually math-related). She was cute when she blushed, and she had a good body, with those sort of nipples that were always showing through sweaters, like she was permanently cold or permanently turned-on. Whatever, it was hot, it made Ross's dick get hard if he stared too long. He’d watch her from the corner of his eye watching Sam, like she couldn't help herself, her lip caught in her teeth, this pink flush on her cheeks, it was way obvious that she had it _bad_ for him. It kinda made him wanna laugh, 'cause even though he didn’t know then about Dean and Sam, (and he's pretty sure that there _was_ a Dean and Sam back then), he already knew that Sam wasn’t gonna return her interest.

His luck came one day when she called round the house, blushing and stammering on the doorstep when he answered, clutching her books to her chest and asking, “Uh, hi, Ross. Is, uh, Sam in?”

Sam wasn’t, he’d gone out with Dean to the movies. Ross can’t remember anymore why he hadn’t gone with them, though it was safe to assume that he and Sam had been fighting about something and Dean had grounded him.

“But, he, uh, he said he’d be here,” she stammered, chewing on her lip.

Ross shrugged, said, “Sorry, he ain't. He went to the movies.”

“Oh,” she said, “oh, right.” She looked stricken, and it suddenly crossed Ross’s mind that she probably thought Sammy had gone on a date, that he was seeing someone else. The thought was so ludicrous that he almost laughed out loud, but in the end, he just smiled sympathetically, and suggested that she come in and hang out anyway.

They got drunk, stealing Dean’s six-pack of PBR from the refrigerator. Being drunk made her looser, giggly, her face so pink she looked feverish. After two drinks each, they were making out on the couch, panting hotly into each other’s mouths.

“You’re cute,” she slurred drunkenly, “and you look like Sam.”

Ross pulled away from her. “Don’t say that.”

She looked stricken again, that sudden panicked look on her face, “Sorry. I – didn’t mean to upset you. But, it’s weird, sometimes you look so much alike. You could be twins. But you’re so different.”

“Sam’s an asshole,” he said bitterly. She gaped at him. “Look, he stood you up, didn’t he?” 

She looked confused for a second, then smiled self-consciously, “Yeah, I guess, he did.”

“C’mere,” he said and pulled her down into the couch.

They fucked on the couch, it wasn’t the first time someone had fucked on this couch. He’d caught Dean and the check-out girl from the 7-11 two blocks away on it, a couple of weeks ago. Dean had been on top of her, his broad shoulders shiny with sweat, the light from the TV playing against the side of his face. Ross had knelt by the half-open door and watched how he did it, how the chick’s legs curled around Dean’s waist, how the muscles in Dean’s back had tensed as he thrust into her, how she leaned upwards into him, eagerly reaching for his mouth, her tongue painting over his lips.

He knew that Dean kept condoms in the drawer of the coffee table, and she watched wide-eyed as he pulled one down over his cock. He glanced up, catching her staring, and gave her a reassuring smile.

“You sure you really wanna do this?”

She gulped, then nodded, said, “Yeah, I, yeah, I do. Got to do it sometime.”

“That’s what I think,” he said, and gave her one of his best and biggest smiles.

It wasn’t all that great, but he’d done it. He’d lost his virginity, and he was only fourteen, and she was sixteen, so, yeah, that was pretty fucking cool. She gave him a weird look when he finally pulled out of her, watching him with this strange unreadable expression that reminded him of Dean when he watched Sammy and Dad fighting.

“That’s so gross,” she muttered as he held the jizz-filled condom between his fingers.

He smirked at her, said, “Thought you wanted to be a doctor.”

She smiled suddenly, all kinda aw-shucks embarrassed, though, baby, it was waaay too late to be embarrassed now. “You know that about me?”

“Sure, I always remember shit you say. You’re kinda cute, too, you know.”

She laughed self-consciously. “Yeah, um, thanks. And, uh, thanks, for this.”

“Dude, you’re thanking me for having sex with you? Trust me, it was my pleasure.” He grinned at her, lips smacking together in that lame, corny way he’d seen Dean use all the time on chicks, that never seemed to fail. And it was working now, making her blush all prettily, not just her face but her neck, her chest, those small titties of hers with the big nipples that looked nothing like the ones in the skin mags Dean lent him.

She was about to say something when the door suddenly jerked open, Dean and Sam’s voices drifting through, laughing together over something. Ross felt himself freeze, and he glanced at her, she seemed frozen too, eyes darting around and arms crossed over her chest, like she was trying to hide herself.

“Oh God, oh God. Who’s that? It’s not Sam, is it?”

“Probably,” he whispered. Any further conversation was cut off by Dean banging the door open and the huge, embarrassing silence.

Dean broke the silence with a dirty chuckle, exclaiming, “Whoa, Ross, you dog!” Then, as his eyes reached Lucy, he grinned, wide and cheesy, “Hey there, sweetheart.”

“Lucy?” gasped Sam, gaping at them. “Ross – what the fuck?”

“Heh, I think they already got they covered,” said Dean, elbowing Sam in the ribs.

Lucy was scrabbling around for her clothes on the couch, face stained beet red and Ross felt kinda sorry for her. He did like her, and she was pretty cute, though the expression of disbelief and anger on Sam’s face was cuter, totally worth it. Dean dragged Sam out to the kitchen, muttering something about giving the lady some privacy.

He kissed her goodbye on the porch, though she acted like she was just putting up with it, just doing it out of some sort of warped politeness thing, with that look that said something like, _I can’t believe I just did that_. Ross went back inside and Dean handed him one of his remaining PBR’s with a huge grin, saying, “I think you just earned that, littlest bro, though you’re totally not off the hook for the ones you stole.”

Sam shook his head at him and said, “I can’t believe you did that. She’s _my_ friend.”

“C’mon, Sammy, chill out, dude. Our little brother is a man, now.”

Ross smirked at Sam, tilted his drink his way, “Unlike you.”

Sam scowled at him and pushed past Dean to clomp out the room. Dean watched him and shook his head.

“Hey, he’ll get over it. Don’t shit it. Now, tell me all about it.”

 

**

 

He thinks about that first time, about Lucy, Sam’s study-buddy, as he makes his way back to the motel. He could’ve stayed longer, but in the end, he snuck out when Michelle was sleeping. He doesn’t want to leave Sam and Dean on their own for too long, doesn’t want to give them that space, that opportunity for –

Well, he fucking knows what for.

He told Dean all about Lucy, all about what it felt like to fuck her, all proud and drunk and fourteen years old. He guesses that some people would probably find that weird, that they’d be all TMI-ish about it, but to him, it _was_ normal, and just seeing Dean’s approving grin was enough for him. And it _was_ awesome. He’d just fucked some chick, lost his virginity, and before Sammy who was nearly two years older than him, and he’d done it with an older chick no less.

He doesn’t notice that he’s holding his breath as he unlocks their motel room door. He’s not sure what to expect. He’s so goddamn relieved when he sees them in separate beds, Dean in his and Sam in… wait a minute – it’s supposed to be Sammy’s turn for the couch, asshole. Oh well, he guesses he can’t blame Sam for thinking that he wasn’t gonna make it back tonight. Normally he would’ve taken up Michelle’s invitation to hang around and bang each other’s brains out for the full 24 hours. But he’d snuck out, 'cause of Dean and Sam, 'cause he had this stupid idea about getting in their way, like a little-brother sized cock-block. He feels another surge of bitterness and clenches his teeth as he slides onto the couch, glaring at the huge-ass lump Sam makes in his bed.

“Hey, you wanna keep it down some?”

He jumps, glances towards Dean’s bed. Dean’s got his eyes open and is glaring at him.

“I can hear you angsting from here.”

“I don’t angst!” he hisses.

Dean chuckles, turns onto his side. “Whatever, go to sleep. And stop thinking so freakin' loudly!”

 


	4. Chapter 4

It lasts for about a week. Sam’s happy, Dean’s happy, Ross is happily oblivious, or at least, that’s what Dean hopes. Luckily, he and Sam have had years of practice at hiding their relationship from Dad and Ross, and although it’s harder now - he never realized just how little space the three of them had from each other until he started craving some proper one-on-one time with Sam - they’ve still managed a couple of hurried, glorious blowjobs.

And things are better between the three of them. Sam and Ross are bickering less, thank God. Getting laid regularly seems to have done wonders for Sam’s mood, every pointed comment and insult sent his way by Ross is now shrugged off with a smile, instead of being bitten back with interest. In fact, Sam’s been acting so fucking happy and serene that Dean’s been considering having words with him. Ross is tarting to get freaked out by this bizarrely harmonious version of their reliably moody brother.

He’s thinking about the best way to suggest this to Sam without pissing him off too much while he visits a Walmart near Tucson. He doesn’t want to bring Sam out of this new-found, orgasm-induced Zen thing he has working for him at the moment, because, hell, it’s making Dean’s life a helluva lot better, and that’s without counting the blowjobs… and _man_ , those fucking blowjobs…

He drifts off in the middle of the snack food aisle, shiny packets of beef jerky swimming in his vision as he thinks about Sam’s face, Sam’s eyes, Sam’s mouth, all of Sam, every amazing inch of him, and hell, some of them are pretty damn amazing. He thinks about Sam in the men’s room at that Mexican diner in Nevada, on his knees, slurping on Dean’s cock like it’s the best chocolate milkshake he’s ever tasted, pulling away at the perfect moment to let Dean come all over his face. He remembers how the glistening white strings of come gathered on Sam’s long wet eyelashes and pink cheeks, how Sam smiled at him, dimples wide, how Sam glided his finger through the spatters of come on his left cheek and sucked it into his mouth, pulling it out with a ludicrous popping sound, murmuring, “ _Mmm, tastes like you_ …” his dark slitted eyes never leaving Dean’s face.

Dean swallows, because God, that memory, so not appropriate for a freaking Walmart. He snatches up a couple of packets of jerky and walks stiffly back to where he’s left the cart. He tosses the packets in and surveys his soon-to-be purchases: rock salt, ammo, Kleenex, Twinkies, potato chips, deodorant, Malboros, Bud, sports socks, jerky, bottled water and Mountain Dew. He has no idea if that’s everything or if he’s forgotten anything because his brain doesn’t seem to be cooperating anymore. His brain is still stuck in that bathroom in Nevada, his brain is still stuck on Sam, though, what’s new there?

He pushes the cart towards the checkout, if he’s forgotten anything, then they’ll just have to cope.

Sam and Ross were asleep when he pulled the car into the parking lot and they’re still asleep now. Ross spread out across the entire front bench seat, head resting under the steering wheel, mouth open, drooling on the vinyl seats. Sam’s in the back, equally out of it, slumped against the right-side door. Dean sighs, thinks about waking them up, then decides the resulting pain is probably not worth it, and unloads the contents of the cart into the trunk.

When he’s done, he leans up against the side of the car to smoke one of his newly bought Malboros, and Ross must be fucking wired to the smell of cigarette smoke or just be an enormous faker because he comes to then, blinks his eyes open and stares blearily at Dean through the smudged window. Wordlessly, Dean opens the driver’s side door, letting him fall out with a strangled yelp, and a belligerent, “Give me one of those!”

“What’s the magic word?” Dean asks him, cocking one eyebrow.

“Fuck you!”

Dean laughs, Ross looks ridiculous, hair matted to one side of his face with sweat, red crease marks from the upholstery etched into his cheek. He’s still blinking, squinting at him in the dazzling Arizona sunlight. He takes the offered cigarette with begrudging thanks, lights up and inhales greedily.

“You wanna drive next shift?” Dean asks as he tosses the remains of his butt to the floor.

“You’re lettin’ me drive?” Ross squints up at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion and confusion.

“Sure,” Dean shrugs, “I’m fuckin’ beat, wanna get some sleep.”

“But you hate my driving.”

“It’s a one-time offer, Littlest Bro, if you don’t want--“

“Wait, wait!” he interrupts, “I do want!”

Dean smirks and pulls the keys out his pocket, dangles them for a second in front of Ross’s face before dropping them into his brother’s outstretched palm. Ross stares down at them as if he can’t quite believe his eyes, and Dean’s not sure that he can either. Sure, he’s let Sammy drive, but that was part of his plan to include Sam, to cheer him up and get his mind off dead girlfriends and destroyed dreams, and Sam’s not a half-bad driver. Ross, on the other hand.

He gulps, fingers itching to grab the keys back, but Ross has already curled his fingers around them, clutching them to his chest and grinning exuberantly. “Oh no! No fuckin’ way, man! You don’t get no take-backs now, Deano!”

Dean shakes his head and opens the passenger side door. “I’m so gonna regret this.”

Ross grins gleefully, tossing and catching the keys out of the air as he walks around to the driver’s side.

Ross grinds the gears as he pulls out of the parking lot and Dean resists the temptation to grab the wheel from him. Instead, resigning himself to the fact that he’s going to get absolutely no sleep whatsoever until Sam wakes up and takes over, or they decide to stop for the night. Actually, that’s not a bad thought, there was a motel only a mile back down the road.

“I can hear you thinking, you know,” says Ross.

For a moment, Dean freezes, petrified that Ross really _can_ hear him, that Ross’s newly-discovered psychic thing, that freaky and goddamned life-saving miracle dream of his that led them back to Sammy’s apartment in time to save his life, has decided to move to another level, and Ross can really now read his mind.

God, no, course he can’t. He’s just panicking over nothing – all the fault of guilt, stupidity, paranoia, whatever - just his goddamned guilty conscience. The same thing that made him make the really fucking dumb decision of allowing Ross to drive his baby.

He scowls at Ross, snaps, “Keep your eyes on the road!”

“You’re such a backseat driver, Dean. Nah, you’re just a fuckin’ control freak. Seriously, you _so_ need to lighten up!”

“And you need to shut the fuck up and keep your mind on driving!”

Ross laughs out loud, throws his head back. The car swerves slightly, and Jesus Christ, this is gonna kill him, really and truly _kill_ him.

“You know, you were the one who taught me to drive, dude, so it’s totally your fault if I suck.”

And isn’t that just like Ross, pushing the blame onto big brother, too fucking smart-ass for his own good, and yeah, he knows – it’s karma, he gets it, and if he weren’t feeling so freaking guilty about everything with Sammy, then he wouldn’t be fearing for his life right now. He deepens his scowl, catching himself in the wing-mirror. God, but he looks like a petulant child, he looks like _Ross._

He sighs, tries to find that morsel of patience from somewhere, the small part of him that _doesn’t_ want to kill his youngest brother.

“Whatever, just don’t fuckin’ kill us, okay?”

“Blah, blah, fuckin’ blah. Go to sleep, old guy, I can handle it.”

 

**

 

Sam’s happier, but the nightmares haven’t gone. He’s sleeping more during the day, drifting off in the car and looking generally a lot healthier than he did two weeks ago, but he’s still not sleeping through the night, waking up with screams and heavy breathing, shivering and looking so desolate that Dean just wants to crawl into his brain and rip out every bad thing Sam’s ever seen. Unfortunately, given the shit they've seen over the years, there’s a hell of a lot to rip out.

This morning, it’s no different. Dean watches Sam from the couch: Sam’s started moving in his bed, arms and legs spasming like a bad actor feigning a nightmare, except this is definitely for real. He pushes the journal off his knees and gets quietly to his feet, going to stand over Sam’s bed.

“Jesus, just wake him the fuck up,” Ross groans out from the other bed.

Dean jumps. “Shit! When did you wake up?”

“Just now.” Ross sits up. “Can’t get any fuckin’ sleep around here. Can’t you make him sleep in a separate room?”

“No, that’s not how it works. You know that, we stick together.”

Ross rolls his eyes and sinks back into his bed, yawns, “Just wake him up, Dean.”

He perches carefully on the edge of Sam’s bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He can practically feel the heat coming off Sam even from this distance. He’s forgotten that about him: how much heat Sam puts out when he sleeps, how his body’s like a freaking furnace, it’s been so long since the two of them have shared a bed. He stretches out with one hand and gently touches Sam’s shoulder; Sam’s skin is startlingly warm under his fingers.

“Sammy? C’mon, dude, wake up.” Sam’s eyelids flutter, his mouth making pained shapes. People are supposed to look young and peaceful when they’re asleep, Sam just looks like he’s in pain. “Sam,” he says, louder this time. “C’mon, Sammy.”

He glances behind him. Ross is watching him with a strange expression on his face, his eyes hooded. “He’s not waking up,” he says, though it’s kinda redundant, Ross can see that for himself.

“You're bein' too fuckin' nice. I’ll wake him up.” He tosses back the covers, swings his feet to the ground. He’s about to stand up when he cries out in pain, body jerking back onto the bed like he’s been shot.

For a moment Dean freezes in shock, staring at Ross in cold terrified disbelief. “Ross?” he murmurs, and again, “ _Ross_?”

“ _Dean…_ ”

And it’s a plea, a come-here-now, an I-need-you. Dean moves lightning fast, grabs onto his brother, sinks onto the bed, pulling Ross close. It’s the only thing he can think to do, and Ross just holds onto him, crowding into him, fingers wrapping around his biceps, sinking into the flesh as he fights to breathe.

Dean’s terrified, his heart stuttering in his chest, Ross’s fingers handcuffs on his arms. His little brother’s grip is impossibly tight and he’s moaning something that Dean can’t make out, but he curls closer into Dean, spiky hair bristling under Dean’s chin.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, littlest bro, it’s okay, I gotcha.”

There’s a hard panicking part of him that’s thinking incoherent, crazy thoughts, around and around his brain as he cradles Ross against him, _he’s having an aneurism, a heart attack, he’s gonna die… This is cause of me and Sam, this is my fault. I haven't been watching over him, I’ve missed something; I’ve been too distracted with Sammy…_

Hearing a noise from behind him, he glances helplessly over his shoulder. Sam’s finally woken up and he’s staring in horror at the two of them, one hand clutched wildly in his hair.

“Dean. What’s going on? What’s wrong with him?”

Dean blinks at him, mouth working uselessly. Ross is still shaking, still gripping him with terrified, white fingers, a strangled sound coming from his throat. Dean cranes his head back to look down at him, “Ross?” voice cracking, “c’mon, buddy, speak – say something. Please, Ross, I need you to talk to me, c’mon, kiddo, little bro, say something.”

Ross stills and Dean can feel the tremors in Ross's body through his tight, gripping fingers. “Something,” he croaks, breath puffing against Dean's throat.

For a long moment, Dean can barely speak for relief. He exchanges a glance with Sam, Sam's eyes look ridiculously huge, he's moved to sit on the end of his bed, fingers locked around the edge of the mattress. Dean swallows and adjusts his grip on Ross, pulling him in tighter, breathing in his familiar, little brother scent, cigarettes and leather and sweat.

“Don’t push your luck," he finally manages to croak out.

Ross makes a huffing sound and lifts his head. His face is white, eyes wet and glassy, dirty tear tracks across his cheeks, but he’s okay, he’s breathing. He stares at Dean, blinking painfully; as if he’s still trying to focus, then slowly he looks past Dean, peering over his shoulder, at Sam. He winces and pulls away from Dean, shuffling back on his bed.

"Sam," says Ross. He licks his lips and swallows. "Did you see it too?”

Sam's mouth falls open as he stares at Ross in disbelief.

"There’s a woman imprisoned upstairs trying to get out, hammering on the window," he says.

Ross nods and squeezes his eyes as if in pain. "Yes."

" _Oh my God_ ," breathes Sam. His eyes are locked on Ross; they're staring at each other as if communicating something. Dean glances between them, there's an epic feeling of wrongness building in him, something he's not understanding, not grasping, he's being left out of this whatever it is.

“Wait? What the fuck? What woman? Imprisoned?”

Sam blinks and slowly turns to look at him. "It was what I was dreaming. I think Ross saw it too."

“Saw _what_?”

Sam closes and opens his eyes, fixing Dean with an intense stare. “A house. A woman trapped upstairs, trying to get out.”

“Two kids,” adds Ross quietly, “and we’re there too. You, Sammy. You were in danger.”

“What? I didn’t see that.” Sam looks up, startled, gaze sliding past Dean, searching for Ross.

Ross doesn’t say anything, he looks lost and confused. He blinks again, rubs his eyes with his knuckles, he looks like a little kid, like the boy he used to be. “I don’t know, I don’t know what I saw, I don’t get it,” he mumbles. He looks so young and lost, and Dean resists the urge to grab onto him again, hold him tight, make it better, comfort him like he used to. “Shit, my head hurts. Dean – I need painkillers.” He flops backwards onto the bed, pulling his body in on itself, fingers massaging his scalp, “God, this blows, so much.”

Dean gets to his feet, heading quickly for the bathroom and the first aid kit. He needs a moment to process all this, get out of the room, away from his brothers and this weirdo bizarro-land he's just stepped into where Sam and Ross are having shared visions of people – of each other - in peril. Fuck, this is not fucking _Angel_. They don’t work off freaking visions sent from the Powers That Be, they work off research and tips and strange newspaper articles – you know – real life. Normal. He grabs the bottle of prescription painkillers, knowing Ross, regular aspirin are not gonna cut it, he'll bitch and whine until he gets the good stuff, so Dean may as well let him have it straight away.

"Here," he drops the bottle onto the mattress by Ross’s head. "You want some water with that?"

Ross groans, so Dean goes back into the bathroom to fetch two glasses, handing one to Ross. Sam’s got a writing pad on his lap and he’s furiously sketching something. Unlike Ross, he seems to be completely fine, already in research-mode, focused intently on whatever he's drawing. Dean places the glass by Sam’s elbow and leans over his shoulder to look.

“What the fuck’s that supposed to be?”

“It’s the house. There was a – a tree outside, something. I don’t know, I think I’ve seen it somewhere before.”

Deans sighs in frustration, paces towards the kitchen area, putting the two of them behind him. He can hear Sam still scribbling, Ross breathing heavily from his position curled up on the bed.

"Okay.” He spins around to face them. “Okay, so I’m gonna bite. You two wanna enlighten me? Tell me why you’re _both_ having _visions? Of the same fuckin’ thing?"_

They share a look, Sam’s eyes flicking towards Ross as if he’s checking something, saying something silently, and shit, as if things weren't weird enough already, Ross and Sam are actually collaborating on something without fighting about it. And they’re doing it without him. They’re keeping secrets from him. Fuck. This _is_ fucking bizarro land.

"Today would be good," he adds, voice hardening: "Or you know, whenever you fuckin’ feel like it!"

Sam rolls his eyes and Ross snorts feebly.

"Look, you know everything we do, Dean. We - I - don't know what’s going on here either. I'm not keeping anything from you," says Sam with that weary, overly patient tone of his that always makes Dean want to punch him.

“So what the fuck’s that?” he snaps, waving a hand at the sketch on Sam’s knee.

“I don’t know. It…” Sam pauses, “It’s kinda – it seems familiar. Hand me Dad’s journal.”

Dean turns to pick up the journal from the kitchen table, tossing it Sam’s way, watching him closely as he flicks through it, nose scrunched up and brow furrowed into his thinking face.

Ross has pushed himself into a sitting position, back to the headboard, regarding Sam warily. Dean tears his eyes away from Sam, glances at his youngest brother. He’s holding himself, shoulders hunched up, brow furrowed, an almost identical expression to the one on Sam’s face.

He sits on the end of Ross’s bed, pats his foot, “You okay, buddy?”

Ross nods, eyes still locked on Sam.

“Here,” Sam says, holding something out to them. “I knew I’d seen it before!”

It’s a photograph: the one of Mom and Dad taken outside their old house in Lawrence. Dean throat tightens as he takes it from Sam, passing it over to Ross in silence.

“Yes, this is it. This is the house!” Ross says, sounding excited. “This is the one I saw. We were in this house. And that woman, the one in danger, she was there too.”

“Our old house,” murmurs Dean. “You want to go back to our old house? Is that what you’re saying? I swore I’d never go back there.”

“We’ve got to do it. This woman, her family – they’re in danger,” Sam says softly. He’s using his extra persuasive voice, and Dean knows that if he looks at him, then he’ll be using the matching eyes. Dean’s never, ever been able to resist that.

“You said we were in danger.” He turns to Ross. “You said Sammy was in danger.”

“I don’t know. I guess,” shrugs Ross. He looks up from the photo, dark eyes wide and confused. “But I’m with Sammy on this one, man, we’ve gotta do this.”

 

***

 

They’re all unusually quiet as they pack up the car for the trip to Lawrence. Ross dozing in the back, bottle of pills cradled in his fist as he lolls across the backseat – taking it, for once, without whining.

Beside Dean, in shotgun, Sam’s quiet, leafing through Dad’s journal, the photo of Dad and Mom propped up on his lap, his finger stroking gently over the creased corner. Dean can’t stop himself from glancing at it, a shiver passing through him every time his eyes rake over their parents’ smiling faces.

He keeps his eyes focused on the road, thinks about the journey, the miles they have to cover, where they can stop, what they need to do, the weapons and research they might need. Anything to avoid thinking about where they’re headed. God, he wishes Dad were here, Dad would know what to do. Sam and Ross are looking to him for reassurance that he just can’t give because he doesn’t know anything, he’s just as lost and confused as they are.

They’ve met various psychics over the years, and he knows that Bobby even counts a couple among his friends. He knows there’s not anything inherently evil about them, they’re white hats after all, but they’ve always made him uneasy, and he knows what his father’s opinion would be. Dad is reassuringly black and white on this sort of shit. He'll go to a psychic for help with a hunt, but he’ll never trust them, viewing their power as being like the ghosts and demons they hunt: fundamentally unnatural and something that has no place in their family. Whatever Dean thinks about it himself, and he’s not even sure what that is yet, he’s not going to voice that particular opinion out loud. It's definitely not something Sam and Ross need right now.

“You okay?” Sam asks, breaking the silence.

Dean shrugs.

“We can, uh,” Sam looks quickly over his shoulder at the backseat, “stop somewhere, take the edge off it?”

Dean sighs, “Let me get back to you on that one.”

“Okay,” says Sam, and he smiles at him. He reaches out to squeeze Dean’s knee, big hand splayed out over his thigh, warm and reassuring. “It’ll be okay, you know.”

Dean doesn’t say anything.

 

 

They stop for food in a diner. Dean wakes up Ross by snapping his fingers in front of his nose. Ross jerks awake, fist coming out instinctively. Dean darts backwards, punch missing him by about half an inch.

“Nice reflexes,” he says.

“Asshole,” Ross mutters, scowling at him. “Where the fuck are we?”

“Time to eat,” says Dean and climbs out the car.

They walk into the diner, stumbling into the booth with yawns and pinched, tired faces. They don't talk to each other, ordering their food from the waitress without bothering to consult the menu, it's not like there's ever any variety in these places, Dean is pretty sure he could guess at least 95% of the menu. Ross slumps over the table as soon as the waitress leaves, chin resting on his folded arms, mouth pulled into a pained scowl. The whole picture reminds Dean of the melodramatic little kid he used to be, that he still is, most of the time, but he doesn’t have the heart to chastise him now, not when looks so pathetic.

He goes to take a piss in the bathroom, and is not surprised when Sam knocks on the door, hissing at him to open up. He hesitates for a second before flushing and opening the door. Sam slides in, locks the door behind him and leans up against it with a calculating look on his face.

Dean looks at him for what feels like a long moment, then wordlessly, he falls to his knees. He unbuttons Sam’s fly carefully, with complete concentration. He tilts his head back, looks up at Sam. Sam’s staring down at him with a wondrous disbelieving expression, and it’s almost too much, it feels like his insides are melting, trickling out of him and spreading out across the floor.

Ross gives them a suspicious look when they get back to the table, the food’s already arrived and Dean pounces on his burger gleefully.

“Why’re you so fuckin’ happy all of a sudden?” 

“Food, littlest bro, food!”

Sam chuckles, gives him a fond smile. His face is still flushed, tendrils of hair sticking to his neck when he moves his head, it makes Dean want to push him back into the bathroom and do it all over again.

Ross doesn’t eat his dinner, pushing his plate of untouched fries aside with a grimace.

“Head still hurting?” asks Sam when Ross lowers his chin back to his crossed arms.

“What do you fuckin’ think?”

“Whoa, I was only asking.”

“Yeah, well, unless you have some Advil hidden on you somewhere, then don’t. Just shut the fuck up!”

“We’re out of Advil?” asks Sam, looking concerned.

Dean snorts and pinches a fry from Ross’s plate. “Dude, you were eating it like candy all day yesterday.”

“I had backache,” retorts Sam, sounding defensive. “That fucking spirit threw me into a gravestone. You _know_ that. We should stop, stock up on some supplies.” He gives Ross a ympathetic look, “Why don’t you try sleeping? That always helps me.”

“Every time I go to sleep, I get a vision of that fuckin’ house with that fuckin’ chick!” he bites out, glaring at Sam. “Going to sleep does not help, Sam!”

Dean frowns, he feels worried all over again, that tight, nagging worry expanding and pressing at the corners of his mind. Just what the hell is going on here? Why is _Ross_ being plagued by these things?

“You’re still having visions?”

Ross grunts disgustedly and gets up from the table, “I’m going for a cigarette. Don’t follow me.”

Dean exchanges a quick look with Sam as they watch Ross leave the diner.

“I don’t like this, man,” says Dean.

“Hey, _hey_ ,” says Sam. He slides his hand over Dean’s where it’s resting on the table. “It’s alright, it’ll be alright.”

“No, it’s not,” hisses Dean. “Why aren’t you still having visions? Why just him?”

“I don’t know.”

There’s a long pause where Dean reaches automatically for another forkful of Ross’s abandoned fries – and Jesus, as if that isn’t a huge-ass, gigantic warning sign telegraphing something’s wrong. When was the last time Ross didn’t eat everything on his plate?

“Look, there’s, uh, there’s something I need to tell you,” says Sam.

Dean looks up, meeting Sam’s eyes for a long beat; their hands are still touching, Sam’s huge man-paw still blanketing his own hand. Sam turns Dean’s hand over slowly, lacing their fingers together. His eyes lower, until he’s staring down at the table – at their linked hands – his lashes brushing against his cheek. Dean stares at him, and feels his dick start to harden again, he can remember licking Sam’s face, pressing kisses up against his eyes, against every inch of his face, every pore and every spot and every well-loved imperfection. The memory’s sharp enough for him to forget for a second what they’re talking about.

He pulls his hand away from Sam’s. “What?”

Sam hesitates, takes in a breath, as if readying himself for something.

“You know these nightmares that I have?”

“I have noticed.”

Sam rolls his eyes and huffs out a small, pained laugh. “Yeah, well. Sometimes they come true.”

“Come again?”

“I dreamed about Jessica’s death days before it happened.”

“Sam."

“No. I dreamt about the blood dripping, her on the ceiling, the fire, and I didn't do anything about it because I didn't believe it.” His voice catches, “Dean – I – _knew_ and I didn’t do anything.”

Dean’s stumped for a moment, staring at Sam, at the blazing honesty in Sam’s eyes. Sam blinks and the look is gone, replaced with one of utter devastation and such hopeless guilt. “I could’ve stopped it.”

“How?”

Sam starts in surprise, “Dean."

“How?” continues Dean, talking over him. “How could you have stopped it? What exactly could you have done? Do you have any idea what did it to her?”

“I – no.”

Dean shrugs. “Well then.”

“But, Dean…”

“Sammy, listen: whatever the fuck is going on with you and Ross and this psychic shit, it had nothing to do with your girl, okay? It wasn’t your fault; there wasn’t anything you could’ve done.”

“I could’ve not gone with you.”

 

 

***

 

 

Dean’s not looking good when they pull up at the house. It kinda figures. Dean is, after all, the only one who actually remembers the place. Sam was way too young to remember that night – to remember his Mom – not that he doesn’t let that stop him from staring moonily at the house with his sad emo face.

Ross can’t help but feel resentful. The place means nothing to him. It’s not _his_ old family home. He wasn’t here when Sam and Dean’s Mom died, he wasn’t thought of, wasn’t dreamed of, wasn’t even a glint in his father’s eye.

He knows that Dad always considered his relationship with his own Mom as a mistake. They weren’t a couple, weren’t _together_ , Dad had just lost his wife. He was sad and desperate and grieving, and his Mom was there, she cared for him, gave him comfort, and she was hot and passionate and beautiful, and Dad was just a guy who couldn’t help himself. Ross knows all this from a mixture of stuff Dean and even Dad (when he was drunker than usual) have told him, and shit he’s worked out for himself over the years.

Dad never carried pictures of his Mom like he did of the amazing Mary Winchester. He never spent years regretting her or grieving for her. If she’d never gotten pregnant with him, he knows for sure that Dad wouldn’t have ever bothered seeing her again. She’d just be another of those non-serious relationships Dad would occasionally have with random attractive women if they were ever stationed in one place for a long time, couple of dates here and there, nothing more. As it was, Dad ended up with another son.

Ross never blamed Dad for not loving his Mom. Dad loved him and that was all that mattered. Dad loved him enough to track him down when he got taken into care after Mom disappeared; he loved him so much he snatched him from the foster family, risking federal kidnapping charges and putting all four of them at risk for years and years afterwards.

“You gonna be okay, man?” asks Sam, breaking the silence.

“Let me get back to you on that,” says Dean.

Ross scoffs inwardly (he’s not saying anything out loud, not right now) and stares across the road at the house. The top window – the one he remembers from his dreams/visions/whatever - is lit up. All the windows are lit up, whoever she is, she’s obviously not too concerned about her electricity bill.

They head across the road, Sam walking close to Dean, shoulders brushing, Ross trailing behind them. He’s feeling pissed-off, sort of aggrieved and itchy, as if he’s been dragged here against his will, which makes zero sense, given it was _his_ (okay, his and Sammy’s) freaky visions that brought them here.

The woman who answers the door is definitely the one from his vision. He’s so surprised that he completely misses everything Dean and Sam say to her. He doesn’t like this feeling, this reality: his dreams, visions, coming true? That’s just… He can’t be psychic. It’s just not possible. He’s a hunter; like Dad, and he knows exactly the sort of look Dad would give him if he ever mentioned this psychic stuff to him.

It’s obviously Sam’s fault. This crap didn’t start until Dean dragged him back again. Sam’s obviously put some sort of whammy on him, maybe not on purpose, he doesn’t think Sam’s capable of that, but it’s totally all his fault. He glowers at Sam’s back as they step inside the house, giving his enormously annoying shoulders his darkest and most evil look.

“You think it’s the same thing that got Jess and Mom?” Sam blabbers on their way out.

Dean’s tight-lipped, not saying anything. Ross can tell that he’s shaken up and disturbed by all this crap. He wants to tell Sam to shut the fuck up, except he kinda wants to know the answers too.

“We should see a psychic,” he says, talking over Sammy, cutting him off.

“Huh?”

“There must be a few in the book here. In a town like this. Let’s find one and ask them. Maybe they’ll have a clue.”

“Yeah, cause we sure don’t,” mutters Dean.

“Clearly.”

Sam looks like he’s about to say something, but he catches Ross’s eye instead and nods. “Actually, that’s a pretty good idea.”

 

 

The problem with three is that it isn’t a magic number. It never divides right. Even before Ross knew about Dean and Sam and their incestuous freakshow, he felt like the odd one out. He’s only a half-brother after all, though neither Dean nor Sam has ever referred to him that way, and he knows that Dean, at least, considers him as much his brother as Sam. Hell, given the sorta shit Sam and Dean used to get up to together, Dean is way more _brotherly_ with him than he’s ever been with Sam. In motel rooms, Ross always shared a bed, and in later days, a room with Dad. Supposedly, it was because he was the youngest and therefore (according to Dad logic) the most vulnerable. And Dad and Sam barely spoke in later days, so it was always better to keep what distance they could manage, between the two of them.

After he found out about Sam and Dean, he pushed for separate rooms more often, arguing with Dad that four grown men in one room was all kinds of gross. Sam and Dean were real eager for that, which kinda made him feel like a sick enabler or something worse. He didn't want to let them get away with their fucked-up disgustingness, but he knew he couldn’t stop them. He could see it in the way they looked at each other, no one was going to be able to stop that, so the next best thing was putting himself far away from it, somewhere he didn’t have to think about it, or God, _listen_ to it – even if the barrier between them was only a motel room wall.

And Dad didn’t know. He acted as if he didn’t suspect a thing, treating Dean and Sammy the same as always. And they thought they were so goddamned safe, so awesomely clever at hiding their perverted thing from him and Dad. He was just their dumb little brother who knew shit, and sometimes Ross wanted to tell Dad so fucking much that the words seemed to burn inside him, like he was choking on them.

And other times, he got the feeling that Dad already suspected.

One time, during the summer break after Sam finally graduated high school and he finished sophomore year, they were all on a hunt in Missouri. Dad had sent him to fetch the morning coffee from the next door diner. When he got back to the motel he knocked on Dean and Sam’s door first, but there was no response, just the muffled sounds of moans and groans and fucking _panting_ , sounds that made the hairs on his arms prickle in revulsion. He threw their cups of coffee in the trash before heading on into his and Dad’s room; let them fetch their own fucking coffee, the disgusting freaks.

Dad was up and getting dressed. He took the coffee from Ross’s hand without acknowledging him, grunting out, “Can you hear that?”

Ross’s blood froze. He could hear them now too through the thin papery wall, and _Jesus fucking Christ_ , the stupid motherfuckers were going to get it now. Dad was gonna catch them. His entire body tensed up, fingers scalding where they held the cup too tightly.

“I, uh, what, Sir?” he managed to squeak out.

Dad turned round and his eyes bored into Ross’s skull, fixing him there with that blood-curdling glare that Ross sometimes felt should be able to turn a man to stone.

“Is that noise coming from your brothers’ room?”

Ross swallowed, the look on Dad’s face was… fuck, it was more than blood-curdling, it was fucking deadly. For a moment, he felt terrified. He knew, he’d seen Dad’s anger first hand, he knew the lethal, cold-blooded way Dad could take evil things apart. And he remembered, one occasion, seeing him punish Dean, watching the cold, hard anger in Dad's face when he watched Dean complete his two hundredth abdominal crunch in the freezing hail, t-shirt stiff with cold and rain, icicles in his hair, shivering uncontrollably when he came back inside to stand in front of Dad, looking pathetic and beat down. He couldn’t remember what Dean had done to deserve that punishment, but he could remember the look on Dad’s face.

And if Dad found out… if Dad knew about it then he would _kill_ Dean. He would put him in the fucking ground.

“I, uh, no, I don’t think so,” he said at last, trying to sound sure. Dad continued to stare at him as if he could see right through to his skull and see the lie in there. He swallowed again, the coffee burning the roof of his mouth, making him want to gag as he stammered out, “I mean, they’re, um, their room’s on the other side, Dad, I think.”

Dad stared at him for a long moment, Ross unable to meet his eyes, head ducked down, then suddenly, Dad nodded, abrupt and cold, like he was letting him off the hook. He raised the coffee to his lips, took a long sip. “You packed yet?”

“Uh, no, not yet, Sir. I’ll get on it.”

Dad nodded again. Ross felt his eyes following him as he rushed into the bathroom to pick up his stuff.

Half an hour later when they were crowding around the Impala and Dad’s truck, tossing their stuff into the trunks and getting ready for yet another day-long drive, Dean came up to him and cuffed him about the head.

“What happened to our coffee, kiddo?”

He didn’t look at Dean, but shrugged and pulled away from him. “I’m riding with Dad,” he said.

Dean looked hurt for a moment, but just shrugged in turn. “Suit yourself.”

Dad strode out then, eyes narrowed on Dean, and he wasn’t sure if Dean could see it, but Ross could now: the cold, wary suspicion in his father’s face as he eyed his oldest son.

“You know the rendezvous coordinates, Dean. Make sure you and Sammy don’t straggle. We won’t wait around for you.”

 

 

Mary Winchester is as perfect as Dad’s memories of her. Long, white gown, flowing blond hair and general glowiness, she’s like a freaking soft rock video complete with wind-tunnel. Ross can’t complain too much, though, as she did save their collective asses, but he’s not gonna thank her for the fucked-up looks on Dean and Sam afterwards.

It’s gotta be pretty moving and emotional and all that chick-flick kinda crap, coming face to face with your dead Mom after so many years, and Sam and Dean look pretty devastated by it. Dean’s got that look on his face where he’s just about managing to hold back the tears and Sam’s not even bothering, letting them flow down his cheeks in that messy way of his that hasn’t changed since he was seven years old.

He tries to imagine what it would be like to see his own mother – to have her ghostly presence save him from some supernatural horror - but the thought is totally foreign to him. He doesn’t feel about her as Dean feels about his mother, she _abandoned_ him, she didn’t have the excuse of dying, she just went somewhere else and didn’t come back. He doesn’t even know if she’s still alive.

“We could track her down if you want,” Dean said to him once, after they’d finished a hunt down in West Texas, only thirty miles from the small town where he’d been born. The case had involved a local warlock cult abducting mothers for various evil reasons, they’d been too late to save one of the women, but they’d gotten there in time to make sure that at least two families wouldn’t grow up Winchester-style. Predictably, Dean had been very intense about the whole thing. He was the kind of person who got too involved in cases, particularly ones like this, that hit just way too fucking close to home. Ross liked to think of himself as being more professional than that, like an FBI agent just doing his job. “We could do it now, before Dad sends us another job.”

“Nah. Why would we wanna do that?”

“Uh, 'cause she’s your mom, dude.”

“So?”

Dean stared at him, that dumb look on his face, as if he didn’t understand what Ross was saying, and truthfully, knowing Dean, he probably didn’t understand. What Dean didn’t get was that as far as Ross was concerned, he was a Winchester. Dad and Dean and Sammy were his family, hunting was his life and family loyalty was everything. Why would he ever want to go back and look for a woman who’d given him up, who hadn’t loved him enough to stick around?

Dean chats to the woman, Jenny, while he and Sam sit on the stoop, waiting for Missouri Mosley, supposed psychic wonder. She comes out the house and starts blabbering on to Sam. Ross doesn’t bother listening to them; she’s so covering her ass. He’d freaking known the poltergeist wasn’t totally wasted the first time, he’d felt that something wasn’t right, though Sam had been the one to say so out loud, but she’d talked over them, said it was clean, and she was supposed to be the expert.

“Hey, d’you think Dean’ll be next?” he asks Sam after she (finally) leaves. “Having visions and shit?”

“I don’t know,” says Sam, “maybe.”

“Can you imagine it? All three of us hit with the psychic mojo? Just think what Dad’d say.”

“Dude, he’d fucking lose it,” says Sam with a snort, meeting his eyes with a wry smile.

Ross stares back at him, feeling his own mouth crook into a matching smile. It’s a strange moment: he and Sam getting along, sharing something, fucking _connecting_ – this vision shit bringing them together in a fucked-up way. They’re not exactly on the same page (he kinda doubts that’s _ever_ gonna happen), but maybe, right now, they’ve made it onto the same book, or at least, the same damn reading list.


	5. Chapter 5

There are no more visions for the next few weeks, just a couple more hunts, the sort of routine shit Ross and Dean have been handling on their own for the past couple of years. And he’s gotta kinda… sort of… maybe… perhaps… yeah… alright… _fine_ … admit that having Sam along for the ride makes things go more smoothly. Sam’s a fucking genius with the research, and Ross is almost getting over Sam hogging the laptop all the freaking time when he manages to come up with the goods three times in a row.

And Sam’s good with the civilians too, even the too young, too old, too butt ugly ones, Sam doesn’t seem to discriminate. Oh, Ross can be charming when he wants to be, but most of the time, he isn’t, (except when there’s a hot girl involved, and that’s usually for entirely different reasons). It’s one of the things he and Dean usually suck at – prying the intel out of the annoying and dumb civilians - Dean’s better than him, but Dean’s kinda short with people, always approaching things the wrong way, getting people’s backs up.

Sammy though… whoa, Sam just does that sympathy face and they’re spilling their guts all over him, like they can’t wait to let it all out. Even afterwards, when Ross is all for getting the fuck out of there, Sam’s insisting on going back and making nice and making sure everything's all okay and shit. Ross gets that finding out that ghosts and spirits and demons actually exist must be a pretty fucking big kick in the pants, but he’s been dealing with it his entire life, these people need to stop acting so fucking precious and get over it. Seriously.

“Man, your eyes are like a Jedi power,” Dean says with this admiring look in his face when Sam rejoins them at the coffee shop with the exact location of the little spirit dude’s grave. “You got that old broad to spill all that?”

Sam shrugs, but he’s doing a shitty job of hiding how pleased he is with himself. “You just gotta know what to say, Dean.”

“Yeah? So, what’s that then?”

“Ahh, well, that’s the thing,” says Sam smugly.

Ross wants to scoff, but Dean’s smiling at Sam from over the rim of his coffee mug, mouth curving up in that slow fond way when he takes the piece of paper from Sam’s hand, their fingers brushing together just a little too long. Ross sips his coffee, feels something seize up in his chest as he watches them trade looks across the table. He feels uneasy, a cold stab of something that he knows, he just _knows_.

It’s not fucking fair, things have been good the last few weeks. Dean’s been acting like he’s almost happy, and Sam’s less whiny and emo than usual, both of which make the life of Ross Winchester a lot less fucking miserable than usual. And if it’s all just because… because Dean and Sam are back doing _that_ again, then well. 

He doesn’t want to know, he decides, he’s not gonna obsess about the how and the why and the secret fucking smiles and the soulful looks, 'cause things have been good between them, and they’re doing their thing. They're saving people and killing monsters, and Dad’s out there somewhere, and they’re going to find him.

 

 

A few days later, they’re not on a job, and things are not good. Back when it was just him and Dean, it was when they weren’t working a job that shit used to hit the fan. They’d start bitching at each other, pitching fits over each other’s stupid-ass habits and the really fucking annoying way Dean always ordered pizza with olives, even though he totally knew that Ross fucking hated olives, or the way he never hung his damn towels up after showering, so by the time Ross got there they were always, _always_ soaked. There’d be the pranks and the teasing and then Dean would tell some chick Ross was hitting on that he had fucking herpes for fuck’s sake, and they’d end up screaming insults at each other in the parking lot of some god-fucking-awful dive bar in freaking Kentucky.

He and Dean have never fought much, so it was always when things got _really_ bad that it went like that. And one time, one truly horrible time, things did get _that bad_. They ended up really and truly fighting, punching the shit out of each other, not in the steady, coordinated way Dad taught them, but blindly and furiously, wanting to cause as much damage as possible. Dean swearing eternal vengeance if Ross ruined his stupid, pretty face and Ross spitting blood at him and calling him a fucking faggot.

He remembers how much he regretted that afterwards, seeing the locked-down, cold look on Dean’s face, remembering how he stumbled over apologies, and begged Dean to forgive him, saying he didn’t care who Dean fucked, and that he didn’t mean to say it, and would Dean forgive him, please, Dean, please, eyes wet, nose snotty and lips bloody, tugging on the torn sleeve of Dean’s henley, like he used to do when he was a kid, his head start to break in two because Dean was mad with him, Dean hated him, Dean was gonna leave him…

“God, shut up, just shut up,” Dean murmured tiredly, face edged into exasperation, nose bloody and knuckles bruised, “as if I could ever hate you, don’t be so fuckin’ stupid, Ross.”

He felt embarrassed afterwards for losing it so completely in front of his big brother, while Dean just acted like nothing had happened, like they hadn’t just beaten the shit out of each other and Ross hadn’t just lost it, called him a faggot and sobbed his heart out into Dean’s shirt.

The problem was that he did care that Dean liked to fuck dudes. He hated watching Dean with other guys, hated the look that would slide over Dean’s face when he noted a guy’s interest, half-smirk, half-thoughtful consideration and how the guys would respond to Dean, smiling and laughing like they couldn’t believe their luck. Then that always led to Dean dismissing him with a shrug, saying, “This is my brother, Ross. You wanna make yourself scarce for a while, little bro?” As if Ross was some annoying little kid, and not his brother and hunting partner. Ross would bite his tongue and walk away, knowing that either Dean or the other guy would be on their knees in the men’s room in less than five minutes, worshiping the other’s cock.

God, he hated it, _hated_ it so fucking much.

“You should try it some time,” Dean would say afterwards, smiling to himself, running his tongue over his teeth in this dirty, lewd way that made Ross want to punch him. “Seriously, kiddo, I love women, I do, but when it comes to sucking cock, I’d choose a guy every time. Tey know what spot to hit, you know?” He'd smirk again while Ross would scowl, bite his tongue on the retort, _Is that what Sammy used to do? Is that how it used to be between you and Sammy, Dean?_

But Dean hasn’t been sleeping around the past few months. Ross can’t remember the last time he saw him head into the men’s room with a guy in tow or the last time he saw him really lay it on with a chick. Whenever they head into bars now, Dean’s all business, straight to the darts board or the pool table, Sammy tagging along and getting in on the hustle or just standing by to watch, like he's Dean’s freaking girlfriend, cheering on his man. Pathetic. Anyway, whatever, Ross shouldn’t complain 'cause it just leaves him more time to hit on the chicks without Dean or Sam’s interference, and yeah, it’s not like he needs Dean to be his wingman, the Winchester genes don’t need no fucking backup.

In a bar somewhere in Phoenix, Dean wins big on a pool game. This time, Sam’s working the hustle with him, blending in as an ASU asshole, while Dean’s the shifty outsider, trying to take the college boy for all his money. None of the idiotic fratboys on the sidelines noticing the same $50 bill passing from Sam to Dean and back again as Dean pretends to lose.

They’re both enjoying it, eyes shining and cheeks flushed, and that’s not just from the rounds of drinks the bystanders keep buying them, it’s also the hustle, the growing pile of dirty $10’s and $20’s in the betting pool on the side of the table, the play-acting between them, the insults and dirty looks, the fake antagonism. Ross isn’t watching them, he’s got his own thing going - Rhona, cute, brunette - just the sort of chick he likes. Anyway, he never gets involved with Dean’s hustles. Dean doesn’t need his help, Dean always handles it on his own, he knows exactly how to play it. Sam never used to get involved either, but now, he thinks he’s gotten good. “There was a bar, not far from my dorm. Freshman year, my roommate, Jimmy and me, we used to be down there all the time, playing pool, I got kinda good,” he told them a few months back. It made Dean grin, raise his eyebrows in that dorky way, saying, “You think you got a chance against me?” And Sammy’s laugh, “Yeah, bring it.”

There’s a cheer from the pool area and Rhona turns her head, looks over and smiles, “Looks like that weirdo guy’s been beaten again.”

Ross glances over. Dean’s standing to one side, looking pissed, glaring at Sam as Sam collects his winnings. “Let’s go again!” Dean cries out, and Ross watches Sam raise his head, looking confused as he stares back at Dean.

“What a loser!” Rhona comments with a shake of her head. “Some people can’t admit it when they’re beaten.” She plays with the straw in her drink, tilts her head at him, “Don’t you think?”

“Mmm, yeah, yeah,” he mutters. Someone else is taking on Dean now, probably expecting an easy ride, fucking idiots. It always amazes him how people never see when they’re being played. A couple of girls are talking to Sam, Sam’s not really taking any notice of them, nodding his head and smiling in that distant way of his that means he’s feeling uncomfortable. He looks up, catches Ross’s eye and grins suddenly, wide and happy and friendly. It’s weird, and for a second Ross doesn’t know what to do, then he nods, smiles back at Sam, acknowledging him.

“Hey, do you two know each other?” Rhona asks. “You and that big guy? I was just thinking that you really look alike.”

Ross clamps down on the urge to roll his eyes. Yes, he looks like Sam, yes, Sam looks like him. He knows, Sam knows, they’ve had people commenting on it their entire freaking lives.

“He’s my brother,” he says, the words feel weird and heavy, like he’s admitting to something he doesn’t want to.

“Oh,” her eyebrows shoot up and she laughs, “well, guess that explains it. We should go over, say hi.”

He shrugs, a sinking feeling in his gut. “Okay, if you like.”

 

 

**

 

A couple of days later and things have definitely gone to shit. Sam’s on edge, pissy and moodier than usual, giving Ross the evil eye like he’s the spawn of Satan.

“Dude, seriously, what’s your fuckin’ problem?” he snaps out through a mouthful of bacon double cheeseburger.

Sam’s lips thin and his eyes narrow – oh great, _that_ look again.

“I realize you’ve been hanging out with Dean for ages, but how about keeping your mouth shut when you chew, huh?”

“Hey, I’m right over here!” protests Dean.

Ross opens his mouth wide, half-chewed burger exposed to the world. Well, at least to Sam. “Fuck you, Sammy.”

Sam gives him a seething look and tosses the remains of his own burger onto the kitchen table.

“Great, now I really don’t wanna eat it.”

“Well, if it’s going spare.” Dean picks it up with a shrug, devouring it in two bites, and hey, maybe Sam has a point, but then on the other hand, maybe Sam’s just a fucking annoying douchebag. He’s about to say something like that when Dean’s phone starts to vibrate, bouncing along the table with tiny hops and jumps.

Dean picks it up and stiffens immediately, mouth falling open in shock.

“Dean?”

Dean swallows and raises his eyes, he looks worried. “It’s a text. From Dad.”

“What?” He’s on his feet, feeling Sammy beside him. “Dean?”

“Dad,” Dean repeats, still staring down at his phone.

He can’t believe what Dean’s saying: Dad? A text from Dad? Dean’s got a text from Dad? Sam’s saying the same thing, though, staring at Dean with wide eyes, stammering out, “Dad? Dad sent a text? The guy can barely work a toaster.”

“Is there a number? Can we call him back?” he hears himself ask.

Dean shakes his head. “No, it’s untraceable. It’s just. Coordinates. 44-89. Ross, get the map.”

He bounds across the room to his duffle, grabbing the tattered and well-used map and spreading it out across the skuzzy carpet. Dean kneels beside him, fingers tracing over the creases. Sam looms over them, his face in shadows from the over head lights.

“Dude, you’re blocking the light.”

Sam moves away, sighing his big ole martyr sigh. “Do you think this is a good idea? I mean, it’s probably just another job.”

“And maybe he’ll be waiting for us there,” points out Ross. He looks back down at the map. Dean’s found the location now, finger pointing over a town in Illinois. “Rockford, Illinois,” he reads. “He could be there.” He feels hopeful for the first time in a long time. Dad’s still around… somewhere. There’s no one else who would send them coordinates like this, no one else who uses that system. So Dad’s gotta be okay, and maybe… he could be there, waiting for them.

“Yeah, and he might not be,” says Sam. “It might just be another hunt.”

“So?” says Dean. “If Dad tells us to go somewhere, we’re going.”

“Since when do _you_ get to take all the decisions around here?”

“Since I’m the oldest.”

Ross can see Sam gritting his teeth, holding back his anger, though exactly why Sammy’s pissed, he hasn’t quite gotten yet. This is the first sign of Dad they’ve picked up in five fucking months; it’s what they’ve been waiting for.

“Doesn’t make you the boss, Dean!”

“Fine!” snaps Dean. “How about we take a vote? I vote we go to Illinois, like Dad wants us to. How about you, Ross?”

Ross shrugs, it hasn’t even occurred to him to not follow the coordinates – Dad’s orders.

“Illinois. Why are we even arguing about this shit?”

Dean turns to Sam, eyes narrowed. “You tell me.”

“Why’s he just sent us the coordinates?” protests Sam. “Why’s he using an untraceable line? He must know that we’re looking for him, that we’re worried about him. Doesn’t he give a shit –“

“SAM!”

Sam’s mouth falls shut and Ross jumps. Fuck, Dean’s pissed. He’s looking agitated too, eyes darting between Sam and Ross like he’s trying to figure something out. He stares at them both for a moment, then he swallows, like he’s trying really hard to calm himself. “Like I said. If Dad wants us to go there, then we’re going there. End of story.”

 

 

***

 

 

It’s not the job. It’s just another job, another among many. And sure, they’re doing good, getting rid of some psycho freak of a ghost is always a good thing.

But why aren’t things different now? He and Dean… everything was going so well, he just doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get why Dean and Ross are so happy just doing _this_. Why they don’t want more. Why they’re happy to follow Dad’s direction, so lamely and blindly trusting.

“How about your brothers, Sam? Why don’t we talk about them?” says the doctor, and Sam stops. He’s supposed to be pumping this guy for information. The last thing he wants to do is talk about Ross or Dean, God, especially not Dean, and especially not now.

They haven’t touched each other since Dad sent Dean that text, and Sam’s aching for it. He woke up this morning literally aching for it, his cock hard like diamonds, and nothing to do for it. Dean had gone out to get breakfast and Ross was up and packing, whistling cheerfully and looking hopeful because _we’re on the right track now, Sammy, Dad’s out there, and he’s alive, he’ll be there, you’ll see…_

“What do you mean, talk about my brothers?” he demands, and the doctor’s eyes narrow in on his face triumphantly.

He remembers that look, the _I’ve hit pay dirt_ look. Fucking shrinks.

This isn’t the first time he’s been to see a shrink. In his first year at Stanford, before he met Jess, he went to see one a couple of times. He was referred by one of his professors. He’d been struggling with some of the classes and they’d suggested it as a requirement for passing the course. The moment he admitted to the counselor – Dr Santi - that his mother was dead and that his father had disowned him, her eyes lit up, just like this guy, practically salivating over the abandonment issues he knew he had in spades. He didn’t need a shrink to tell him how irrevocably screwed up he was. It was hardly news to him, thank _you_ , John Winchester.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he tells the doctor.

“Why not?” asks the guy with the sort of knowing smile that makes Sam’s fingers itch to punch him.

Dean’s waiting outside the clinic, leaning against the wall, smoking and looking bored when he finally gets out.

“Jesus, what took you so long?”

Sam looks at him for a moment. He doesn’t feel safe talking to Dean right now. He bites his lip and looks away, “C’mon.”

“Sam.” Dean drops his cigarette to the ground and puts a hand on his shoulder. His hand is so warm, and for a moment, Sam wants to grab onto him, pull him close, wrestle him to the ground and grind himself against him until he gets off, just fucking _use_ him because he’s just that fucked-up.

“C’mon, man,” says Dean.

And that is fucking _it…_ Sam twists, fists Dean’s shirt in one hand, the other on the back of his neck, pulling him into a bruising, painful kiss. Dean sways into him, teeth sinking into Sam’s bottom lip and tongue in his mouth, groaning like a freaking porn star when Sam pulls away.

“Sammy,” Dean breathes out, eyes still closed.

“Let’s go,” he says viciously, pulling away from Dean. “Gotta finish the job, remember?”

He can see the flash of hurt in Dean’s eyes, and he feels a sudden burst of guilt, quickly followed by vindication. Fuck it, Dean deserves to feel guilty. If he’d just man up for once and stop following Dad’s orders so blindly, start thinking for his self. But no, this is Dean, and Dean believes in Dad, God-like Dad who is Dean’s hero, the sun to his earth, the moon to his stars. Why can’t Dean just see how incredibly fucked-up that is?

 

 

 

Everything gets much worse in the asylum.

“You gonna shoot me, Sam?” says Dean. He’s laying on the floor, staring up at Sam with wide, guileless eyes, a flare of: _I dare you_ alongside: _How could you?_

And God, he’s just so fucking angry. He knows that somewhere, there’s some part of him that’s watching this and thinking, _What are you doing? Why are you doing this to Dean?_ But there’s the part on top, the part that evil, psycho ghost has ignited that’s so angry at Dean for bieng Dean, for caring too much, for wanting Sam too much, for making him feel so desperate and lost and needed. For being Dean, perfect soldier, perfect son, so fucking loyal and selfless and desirable, and God, he just can’t _stand_ it.

He makes a sound with his mouth, a keening pained sound as he lowers the gun. He feels defeated and empty and he can’t breathe. He shot Dean. He shot Dean with rock salt. He can’t believe that he did that, not to Dean.

_“What the fuck are you doing?”_

Ross rushes into the room, tackling him to the floor. He lies on top of him, covering him completely, forcing the gun from his fingers. Sam closes his eyes and lets his head thump back against the concrete, lets Ross’s weight sink into him and grind him viciously into the dirt and dust. Ross’s hands tighten their grip on his wrists, fingers cruel and hard. He gets to his knees, straddling Sam’s hips, looming over him, breath hot and sour on Sam’s face.

“ _You son of a bitch_!” he spits, freckles of saliva hitting Sam’s face.

“It’s okay, I’m okay.” He hears Dean’s voice as if from far away. “Ross, it’s okay. It wasn’t loaded, he didn’t do it. It’s okay.”

Ross doesn’t move, for once not immediately obeying Dean, and this more than anything means that Dean is so, so wrong and it is definitely not okay. Ross’s teeth are bared in a snarl of hatred and disgust, his eyes dark and bitter and jagged, hard enough to cut steel – _Dad’s_ look of death and fury. For the first time ever, Sam feels afraid of his little brother.

_“Ross!”_

Dean’s hand comes out and he pulls Ross off Sam, sending him sprawling to the floor. Dean’s breathing painfully, cradling his hand against his chest, his shirt in tatters where the rock salt rounds ripped through him, and _holy shit_ , did Sam really do that? Did he really just shoot Dean?

Ross holds a hand up to his nose and stares at the two of them.

“He fuckin’ _shot_ you, Dean? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“He wasn’t himself,” says Dean steadily, his eyes boring steel into Ross. “Now, c’mon, let’s get this son of a bitch and get the fuck outta here.”

 

 

 

Sam still feels sick, his stomach’s bottomed out, he’s lost it somewhere, lost the ability to feel anything but nausea and self-loathing. He watches Ross patching up Dean’s chest, picking out lumps of salt with tweezers, Dean all the while groaning and gritting his teeth around a fifth of Beam and not looking at Sam.

He hasn’t tried to say sorry. Dean already knows he’s sorry and saying the words again is not going to help. They’re not going to put the three of them back together. Ross is barely able to look at him and when he does it’s with _that_ look, that Dad look of his that reminds Sam why he’s not sure finding their father is going to be a good thing.

Ross finishes up, applying bandages with practiced fingers and a professionalism that surprises Sam. Ross was never the one who did any of the patching up in the old days. Then again, he and Dean have been on their own for a long while, he’s probably gotten plenty of practice. The thought of all the times Ross must’ve patched up Dean’s injuries over the past couple of years makes his stomach heave, the nausea coming again and again in a noxious wave. Ross gets up, throws the used dressings into the trash and tosses Dean a clean shirt – one of his own.

“Thanks, kiddo,” says Dean and his voice is slurred, most of the bottle already gone.

Ross grunts and stomps off towards the bathroom to wash his hands, ignoring Sam as if he’s not even there.

Dean shuffles into a sitting position, back bowed as he struggles into Ross’s t-shirt. He swears under his breath and lets the bottle slip between his thighs.

“Here, let me.” Sam jumps to his feet, hurries to sit on the edge of the bed, hands coming out tentatively to grip at the worn cotton and tug it down over Dean’s shoulders. Dean’s shoulders are broad, a silvered scar across the right where a harpy clawed him up years before. Sam can remember watching his father’s frowning concentration as he sewed up the yawning gash, his big hands intricate and delicate as they held the needle, Dean biting his lip and trying to be tough enough to win Dad’s approval. Eight days ago Sam licked a slick trail over that scar, mouth tracing a line across Dean’s shoulders and to the nape of his neck while Dean shivered against him, murmuring his name over and over. 

Dean jerks away from him sharply. “Dude, get off. I can manage.” He glares at Sam as he pulls the shirt down over the bandages, wincing again. Sam ducks his head and retreats back to his own bed.

Dean slides off the bed, draining the last of the bottle and stumbling to throw it in the trash. He sits down at the crappy kitchenette table, snaps the cap off one of the beers Ross bought the day before.

“Are we not going to talk about this?” says Sam after a moment. He licks his lips, “What I – uh, did?”

“No,” says Dean flatly.

 

 

 

Of course, when Sam thinks it can’t possibly get any worse, it always gets worse.

He should be happy, hell, Dean and Ross _are_ happy. Dad finally made contact, which means he’s okay, he’s still alive. But right at this moment that doesn’t matter, 'cause Sam’s not thinking straight, he's not thinking at all. He’s yelling at Dean, and Ross is standing off to one side, the three of them like an equilateral triangle grouped around the Impala whose engine is still chugging away as if she’s trying to tell them something. He can’t think, he’s so goddamned angry and he really and truly can’t take this anymore. He can’t take the three of them and Dad and their pathetic, claustrophobic fucked-up lives and their pathetic, sycophantic fucked-up ways, their reliance on Dad, always Dad. There are so many other things out there. There’s real life where kids don’t treat their fathers like God Almighty Mr. General Sir Yes Sir Whatever You Say Sir You Want Me To Throw Myself Off a Fucking Cliff Well Yes Sir Of Course I’ll Do That.

“I’m serious. I will leave your ass!” shouts Dean and Sam's retort is automatic, thrown right in Dean’s face, instinctive and designed to _hurt_ : “That’s what I want you to do!”

He’s shouldering his duffle, laptop bag banging against his hip, Ross’s voice ringing in his ears, meant for Dean only, but loud enough for Sam to hear because Ross can be a vindictive little bitch and Dean’s just fucking spineless, family doormat to father and brothers.

“C’mon, Deano, leave him. He doesn’t want to do this, then fuck him. We managed without him for two fucking years, we don't need him now.”

The knot tightens in Sam’s gut, that goddamned ring around his heart that may as well have Dean’s name branded into it, because it’s always been all about Dean. And he feels his chest start to ache, like a physical wound, a phantom pain to match where he shot Dean full of rock-salt, constricting so hard that for a second he can’t breathe. But he can still walk, his legs can still move. So he does, carrying him away from his brothers.

He shakes his head, pushing the thoughts away, and keeps walking. He hears the car doors crank shut, the chug-rumble-roar of Dean’s foot on the gas. They're really going. He’s on his own, abandoned, odd brother out.

He huffs out a long breath, tightens his grip on his laptop bag and keeps walking.

 

**

 

 

Dean calls him first. There was a part of Sam that was always expecting it. Dean is always the first to fold. But there was another part of him that wasn’t sure, that thought maybe this time he'd gone too far. He shot Dean full of rocksalt, he could've killed him. But the stupid, typical irony of the thing, of their entire dumb situation is that it wasn’t the rocksalt that caused this current rupture, it was Sam questioning Dad’s orders and going against The Word of Dad - a far greater crime than a chest full of rocksalt.

“You okay, Sammy?” asks Dean. Sam can’t help the smile breaking across his face, hearing the familiar concern in Dean’s voice, although Dean’s trying to disguise it, chuckling over him and Ross being run out of town. But the pauses are long and loaded and that has to mean something.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” he says, and for a moment, he wishes it were true. He wishes he could leave them for good, find Dad and find whatever got Mom and Jess, get his revenge - get _their_ revenge and end it all. Then perhaps, once it’s all over, he could go back to Dean, and tell him everything. 

Not that he has any clue what he'd tell him. And besides, would anything change? Dean would still be Dean, he'd still make the same choice, he’d still choose hunting and Dad and Ross and everything else that has been all their lives in forever over him.

He closes his eyes, hears himself say, “No, screw that, Dean. Screw everything. I’m not okay. I’m sorry, man, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t’ve--"

“Forget it,” interrupts Dean, using that gruff tone of voice which generally means he wants out of this conversation. “Sammy, don’t worry about it.”

There’s a long pause while he listens to Dean breathing down the phone, he sounds so close. 

“You still planning on going to California?” Dean asks finally.

Sam looks around him, the depressing bus station, the blonde girl – Meg - dozing on the floor, and he feels a wave of loneliness hit him, he suddenly misses Jess terribly. The two of them used to get buses everywhere, they never had that much money, her family keeping her on a tight budget and he only having what he could earn or what he could hustle. They overnighted in a bus station somewhere in Oregon once, on a trip back from Seattle where her family lived, curling up on one of the ultra-uncomfortable plastic seats together, her tangled hair a mass of itchy warmth under his chin, her body curled into his own. He’d felt protective and so much in love that he almost didn’t notice the cold depressing surroundings.

He bites his lip; he can feel the tears edging at the back of his eyes, threatening to come. He knows if he blinks then they’ll just roll down his face. It’s been six months, but he barely feels as if he’s come to terms with her loss. He hasn’t had chance to really think about her not being here anymore, he’s been too busy, Dean and Ross and the Winchester claustrophobia. Every day bleeding into the next, hunts and fights and bickering with Ross, and God, being close to Dean again, _having sex_ with Dean again. There's been no room for anything else, Dean and the Winchester life blotting out everything as it always used to do, and maybe that’s been the point.

“I – uh. No,” he says at last, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Dean, where are you? I can come to you.”

Dean pauses for a second, and when he speaks, he sounds relieved. “I’ll come and get you, don’t be stupid.”

“No, Dean, no, you don’t need to. You gotta take care of that scarecrow thing. I’ll come to you.”

“Well, I’m on my way to a local community college to check this out. But Ross’ll be hanging around Burkitsville a bit longer, undercover.”

Sam snorts, mouth creasing in amusement. “Ross? Undercover?”

“Yeah. Uh, maybe you should get your ass over here, huh?”

Sam smiles, he feels lighter, a cold knot uncoiling in his stomach. “Okay, and thanks, man.” He snaps his phone shut before Dean can respond, not wanting to hear his brother’s stilted thanks. He gets to his feet slowly, darting a look at the blonde girl, Meg. She’s awake and regarding him with a strange, wry expression on her face. He smiles awkwardly. “Oh, uh, hey. Sorry if I woke you.”

She shrugs. “It’s a bus station.” She watches him get to his feet, zipper up his jacket and shoulder his duffle. “You going somewhere?”

“Yeah, I’m not going to California anymore.”

“Oh?” She raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

He huffs out another awkward smile. “I just spoke to my brother. We – well, things’ve changed, I’m gonna go meet with him.”

“Your brother you were telling me about?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“The one you were trying to get away from?”

He feels a stab of irritation at her, though really, it’s not her fault, he was the one telling her all that shit, too overwrought and angry at Dean and Ross to think properly, bending the ear of some passing chick with his dumb issues.

“That’s the one. Look, it’s, uh, complicated.”

“Right. Complicated.” She nods her head, giving him that wry smile again. “Don’t worry. I get complicated.”

“Sure.” He turns to go. “Look, Meg, it was nice meeting you.”

“You too, Sam!” she calls as he walks away.

 

**

 

 

After the scarecrow hunt, they fall into a holding pattern, the three of them. Not talking about Dad, about where he could be, what he might be doing, why he’s in California. But Sam thinks about it constantly. And when he’s not thinking about Dad or getting revenge or their latest case, he’s thinking about Dean.

It’s nothing new. Since that night in the parking lot in Athens, since they started this thing up again between them, he’s been thinking about Dean whenever he’s not actively thinking about anything else. But this time, after the big fight, after he almost left again…

…It was that look that did it. The one on Dean’s face when Sam emerged from the orchard to see both his brothers tied to the sacred tree, firing up something in Sam’s gut, restarting his heart like a couple of defibrillator paddles.

“Sammy! Oh am I glad to see you!”

And Sam felt himself melt, wanting to fall down in front of Dean and take his face in his hands, kiss him over and over again until nothing else mattered, until he lost himself in it. The rest of the world and his youngest brother evaporating away to give him and Dean that moment, that special moment of reunion. But he didn’t do that. Of course he didn’t. Contenting himself with untying the two of them before they were all were running for their lives from the seriously creepy scarecrow monster.

This time it feels like a seismic shift. Because he can see it all now, see the truth. Dean _loves_ him. Dean loves him so much. Dean loves him more than anyone has ever loved him in his entire life, he’s pretty fucking sure of that. Dean is there every day, larger than life, and the most important person in Sam’s life. The one person whose love he can always count on, the kind of love that isn’t even dented by a chest of rock salt, by two years of silences, It's completely unconditional, as constant and epic as the fucking sky.

So he thinks about Dean. He thinks about the way Dean smiles, about the crinkles at the corner of his eyes, about the short hairs on the back of his neck, about how vulnerable he looks when he leans over the trunk of the car, exposing that thin strip of neck to the world. He thinks about how when Dean grins at him, wide and wicked and beautiful, it lights him up from the inside.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Sam turns twenty three and he doesn’t even realize it until he sees the date on the newspaper. May 2nd, 2006, he reads. The date barely registers, his eyes too busy scanning through the tales of local sporting victories, hospital fundraisers and school dance recitals in search of any suspicious details. When the date finally does register, he thinks, _huh, okay, so I’m 23 now_. He takes a long sip of his coffee and thinks about ordering a Panini.

They’re in Oregon, not far from Portland. Dean disappeared into the city early that morning, before Sam woke up, apparently to stock up on supplies at a sporting goods store owned by an old marine buddy of Dad’s, or so said the note he left. Ross wasn’t around either, but Sam knew straight away that he hadn’t gone with Dean because his hooking-up jeans were still rolled up in a ball in the corner of the motel room where he’d abandoned them three days ago. 

Sam luxuriated in the feeling of having the room to himself for a few hours. After drifting in and out of sleep for what felt like a decadently long time, he climbed out of his own bed and into Dean’s. He pressed his face into the pillow and breathed in the scent of his brother, feeling his dick instantly harden. The damn thing was hard-wired to the smell of Dean. He flushed red, suddenly aware of what he was doing and what he’d been reduced to. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the cobwebbed ceiling. His face and chest were burning with self-consciousness and embarrassment, his brain telling him that this was sick and twisted, but his hand was working independently of his brain, sliding slowly and sumptuously down his body towards his demanding cock. It didn’t take long for him to come, eyes tight shut and nose pressed into Dean’s pillow, images and memories of his brother floating through his mind as he jerked off, careful to spill all over his own body and not ruin Dean’s sheets.

He took his time getting dressed, taking an epically long shower and jerking off again, this time imagining Dean in there with him, soapy and wet and slick. That time was even quicker.

“Hey, Sammy.” He jerks his head up, gaze narrowing in on Ross as he looms over the table, fingers drumming against the seat back opposite. “Whatcha doin’?” He slides into the chair, signaling for the waitress to come over.

“Having some quiet time,” Sam replies, making a face at him.

Ross makes a face back at him and watches the waitress cross the room towards them. “Whatever. Hey, sweetheart, I’ll have a triple shot americano, black please.”

Sam watches Ross watch the waitress’s ass as she walks away. Jesus, but his brother’s such a fucking poser.

“You find anything?” Ross nods towards the papers and the laptop.

“Maybe. I think there could be a poltergeist in Arkansas. We should check it out anyway.”

“Sweet. I’m fuckin’ dying here without a case.”

“Hmm.” Sam doesn’t have a response to that. He’s surprised himself how weird and uncomfortable it is to have actual down time. He remembers days off as being precious before, back when he had studying and endless reading lists. Not to mention the two part time jobs he used to work just to cover his off-campus rent. Now, though, it just drags.

Ross gets up from his chair to go over and annoy the waitress while she fixes his coffee. Sam goes back to flicking through the small ads. He looks up as Ross crosses back towards him. He’s carrying his coffee in one hand and in the other he’s got a triple choc muffin, a _fucking huge_ , triple choc muffin. He grins smugly and deposits the muffin in front of Sam.

“For you.”

Sam raises his eyes to him in confusion. “Uh, what?”

“You didn’t think I’d forgot, did ya?”

“What?”

“Dude. Your birthday. It’s today.”

Sam’s speechless for a long moment. Ross remembered his birthday? He was kinda put out that Dean didn’t say anything, though as he’d barely remembered himself, he wasn’t all that shocked. But that of the three of them, _Ross_ would be the one to say anything – well, that’s definitely out of leftfield.

“I’ve only been, like, looking for you all day,” says Ross, cocking his eyebrows in that smart-ass way that always reminds Sam of Dean, but that’s also so totally _Ross_. “Happy fuckin’ birthday, Sammy.”

“Um, thanks?”

Ross rolls his eyes and gestures again. “Well, aintcha gonna eat it? Cause if you ain’t I’ll–“

“Hell, no way, man! This is _my_ muffin. Get your own!” He looks up at Ross with a grin. “Seriously, thanks, Littlest Bro.”

“Oh God, you so don’t get to call me that, too.”

“Suck it up.”

It’s damn good muffin, and maybe it’s just Sam’s stomach protesting 'cause he’s actually pretty hungry, but it’s fucking perfect, gooey and chocolately and moist. He knows he must be making something close to orgasm noises as he eats if the disturbed expression on Ross’s face is anything to go by. He breaks a piece off and holds it out to Ross who takes it greedily.

“So what’s it like to feel so fuckin’ old?” Ross asks after they’ve devoured the muffin in less than two minutes.

“Fuck off. You’re only nineteen months younger than me.”

“Yeah, and I’ll be nineteen months younger than you for the rest of my life. I’ll always be younger than you.”

“You’ll always be an annoying little shit.”

Ross laughs. “And you’ll always be a self-righteous asshat, so you know, whatever.”

Sam makes a face, he can’t help himself. But for once, it’s not vicious or designed to hurt. It’s almost playful. It’s easy, familiar and weirdly comforting. Ross is the same annoying little shit he’s always been, but he’s also an inherent part of him, just as Dean’s an inherent part of him. They’re the Winchester boys, all three of them, one unit, one family. Ross is bratty and infuriating and can rub Sam up the wrong way like no other person in the entire world, but he’s also the person Sam spent more time with than any other before he left for Stanford. They shared schools, friends, the backseat of the Impala, books and clothes and toys, even looks – that goddamn resemblance – that had teachers and kids always asking, “So, are you two twins?”

God, he used to hate that, trying to keep his temper as he insisted, “No, we’re not twins, I’m nearly two years older than him!” while Ross, the little shit, would snicker like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. But Ross was lucky; like Dean, he grew into his body early. He was taller than Sam by the time he was twelve and Sam was fourteen, though, Sam’d made up for it later, outstripping both his brothers by four inches, to their joint disgust.

After Sam graduated high school, he can still remember the look on Ross’s face when he realized he’d have to face every new school experience on his own: bewilderment and even fear, hidden under the Winchester bravado. He begged and pleaded with Dad to let him drop out. 

“C’mon, we should go. The old guy might be back by now,” says Ross. He looks jittery, like he’s trying to hide something. “What?” snaps Ross.

Sam grins knowingly. “You and Dean – you've been cooking something up, haven’t you?” 

Ross sniffs, “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

Sam laughs out loud. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell him that you spilled. Besides, we all know that you can’t keep a secret to save your life.”

Ross gives him a strange look, but doesn’t say anything, just gives a one-shouldered shrug as he gets up from the table, mouthing, “Whatever,” in that irritating way that has Sam reaching out to cuff him on the side of the head. Ross dodges easily, mocking smile returning to his face as he sing-songs, “Too slow, Sammy! Always too fuckin’ slow.”

“Fuck you,” Sam says cheerfully, and Ross half smiles, jostles him with his elbow as they make their way out the coffee shop.

 

 

 

As Sam suspected, Dean hasn’t forgotten his birthday. Instead, by the time Ross and Sam get back to the room, Dean’s already there, standing by the flimsy kitchenette table with an enormous shit-eating grin on his face. On the table are a couple of six packs, two bottles of vodka, a baggie full of weed and an enormous ice pink birthday cake.

“For the special birthday girl!” declares Dean.

“Awesome,” says Ross approvingly, slamming the door shut behind them, “pink, how fuckin’ appropriate.”

“Aw, honey, you remembered,” Sam greets him.

Dean and Ross snort in unison, and Ross sets to, eagerly slicing up the cake with one of their hunting knives. Normally, Dean would be riding his ass about using one of their knives for something domestic, but he’s far too occupied in rolling their first joint. When Ross goes to the bathroom, Dean pours a healthy glug of vodka into Ross’s half-drunk bottle of Budweiser.

“Dean, what the fuck are you doing?” Sam asks.

Dean just raises an eyebrow at him and smirks.

“Dude, you’re gonna poison him!”

Dean scoffs at that. "Don't be so dramatic, Sam. Kid’s got a concrete stomach, I’m not gonna poison him. What kind of big brother do you think I am?”

“The kind who’s planning on getting his little brother so drunk he’ll pass out and possibly _die_?”

“He won’t die, this is Ross we’re talkin’ about,” says Dean with affected patience. “Anyway, I’m doing this for you. Littlest Bro’s gotta be out of it so you can enjoy your _real_ birthday present.” He leers at Sam, and Sam remembers that Ross, when passed out, stays passed out, sleeping like the dead. 

“"Jesus, Dean." 

“If you’re not on board with this, man..."

“ _Hey_ , hey, I never said that!” he protests quickly.

Dean just smirks at him, seeing right through him as usual. He slides a hand under the table, reaching to palm at Sam’s dick through his jeans.

“ _Dean_!” he hisses when they hear the sound of the flush. He pushes Dean’s hand away and gets up from the table with an uncoordinated jerk. Dean's still smirking evilly to himself by the time Ross reappears.

Sam watches Dean stealthily adding more and more vodka to Ross’s shots with a conflicted feeling in his chest. On the one hand, Ross is not protesting, helping himself to more and more booze. Ross has never needed anybody's help to get drunk off his ass. And really, Sam tells himself, if Dean thinks it’s okay to spike Ross’s drinks then it must be okay. Dean would kill himself before he did anything to harm his youngest brother. Besides, Sam has to admit that he's kinda excited to know what Dean’s got in mind for his _real_ birthday present.

Eventually Ross gives in and slumps head first onto the table. Dean chuckles and gets Sam to help him carry Ross over to one of the twin beds.

“Are we just gonna,” Sam makes a rough gesture with his hands, “while he’s lying here?”

“You know he sleeps like the dead,” says Dean. “He won’t wake for hours.” He drops his hand gently to Ross’s head, ruffling his hair with a fond expression on his face. Sam watches him, eyes narrowing in on the tender, almost delicate way Dean’s fingers card through the short, dark bristles of Ross’s hair. The movement of Dean’s fingers is mesmerizing, and it makes something well up hot and hard in his chest, a memory of Dean and Ross from years ago, on the couch at Bobby’s, Ross’s head in Dean’s lap as they watch TV, Dean playing with Ross’s hair, Sam watching them from the corner armchair, pretending to read.

Sam bracelets Dean’s wrist and tugs his hand away from Ross. Dean starts, eyes widening as he glances up into Sam’s face. They’re both silent for a moment, looking at each other. Then suddenly, Dean says, “Christ, Sammy, feels like I’ve been waiting all damn night." 

Sam drags him from Ross’s bed and wrestles him down onto the other, fingers knotting in the thin fabric of Dean’s t-shirt, desperate to get at him any way he can. He feels like he’s been hard for the past week, sloppy jerk-off sessions in the shower (and Dean’s bed) barely putting a dent in the pent-up desire he can feel fizzing under his skin every time he looks at his brother. He devours Dean’s mouth with his own, tasting beer and pot and birthday cake while Dean pants and writhes beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair and tongue slicking over his lips.

“So, what’s my big present?” he gasps out when they finally break apart.

Dean’s smile goes wicked, and he licks his lips, eyes locked on Sam’s.

“Was thinking I might let you fuck me.”

He stares at Dean, shocked, then he blinks, groans out, “Jesus, Dean, are you serious?”

“Course I’m serious.”

Sam exhales, he can feel Dean’s eyes on him, watching him closely, eyeing him with this little smirk at the corner of his mouth. Sam swallows, trying to contain himself. He curls his fingers around the hem of Dean’s shirt, whispers, “Dean –“

“What?”

“You know, we, uh, never really did that before. And when we did, it was always, well, the other way round, you fucking me.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, “I know that.”

He watches as Dean squirms around, sheets rucking up underneath his body as he shoves one hand into the pocket of his jeans to draw out a small tube. He drops it onto the mattress between them and Sam looks down at it, feeling a bolt of heat straight to his gut as he recognizes it as lube. He raises his eyes to Dean, huffing out a nervous, ragged laugh, while Dean’s smile widens, his expression mocking and fond.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Dude, totally.” He leans forward, places one hand on the curve of Sam’s hip, tugs him closer. “Hey. C’mere.” 

Sam shifts, moving so their bodies are flush against each other, both of them on their sides, chests, hips and foreheads touching. They’re so close that Sam can feel the heat coming off Dean, their sweat mingling, the sour smell of alcohol and pot soaking into his pores from Dean’s. He can feel the red flush of heat and lust as it spreads over Dean’s face, down his neck and chest, and feel the slight trembling in Dean’s body as Dean’s hips jerk forward instinctively, his rock hard cock pressing into Sam’s stomach. He puts his mouth to the curve of Dean’s throat and his tongue feels like it’s sizzling. Dean’s skin is so warm, so hot, so gorgeous; he licks gently, slickly, tasting his brother’s sweat.

“Sammy,” Dean breathes, “Sam.”

Sam slides his palm down his brother’s back, over his sweat-drenched shirt, the thin fabric wrinkling, damp and gross. He splays his fingers over Dean’s ass and throws his leg over Dean’s hip, tangling their legs together, their groins flush up against each other, cocks so stupidly hard.

He cups Dean’s ass with his hand, fingers digging into that perfect, round curve. He thinks about it: sex It’s new. Despite everything they used to do together, sex – actual real sex – never really came into it. Three, maybe four times, he can count them on the fingers of one hand, and always him on the bottom, Dean on top, because Dean was the older brother and _you ain’t sticking that tent pole anywhere near my ass, dude…_ He smiles to himself, remembering, that tone in his brother’s voice - half-awestruck, half-salivating - Dean’s worshiping fingers and adoring hands all over him. _God, Sammy, you drive me fuckin’ crazy, you know that?_

“Why you smiling?” Dean asks, his mouth pressing a line of kisses down Sam’s temple, over his sideburn and against his jaw.

“You, you’re so ridiculous,” he says.

Dean draws back to look at him, “Right back atcha, dude.”

Sam huffs out a laugh and nuzzles the side of Dean’s face, all stupid, drunk affection. Dean’s smiling; he can feel it, the curve of Dean’s mouth against his cheek, the puff-puff of Dean’s breath against his skin. _Why can’t it always be like this_ , he thinks, _why can’t we always be together like this?_

When he was younger and things would get really bad, when he and Dad couldn’t even be in the same room without wanting to punch each other and Ross would snarl at him and blame him for everything, he used to day-dream about this. About him and Dean. Just the two of them, somewhere, it didn’t matter where. No overbearing, generalissimo father-figure, no bratty, omnipresent kid-brother. After Dean finally gave into him, it only got worse. His desire to be with Dean and only Dean was a constant, beating refrain deep in his gut, a stronger echo of the ever-present sexual desire.

“I wish it could always be like this, you and me,” he whispers, his slow, foggy brain unable to stop the words from coming out.

Dean turns his head and looks at him for what feels like a long moment, a tight heavy look in his eyes, “You know it can’t,” he says finally, and his voice sounds flat, as if he’s trying to tell himself something too.

“But, Dean,” he lifts his head, sighs in frustration, “I – just – when Dad… when it’s all over, when we get the thing that killed Jess and Mom. When Dad comes back and it’s all, you know. Afterwards. I was thinking that you and me – we could – go off somewhere, just, us…” he trails off, feels his chest start to clench up, an absurd sadness take hold of him. He can feel the tears threatening, hot and prickly, burning behind his retinas, and he knows he’s just being stupid and saying dumb shit because he’s drunk and he's smoked too much and today is his goddamn birthday. “It could be just you and me, like I used to – _God_ , Dean, like I used to dream about… and we could go somewhere and we could do whatever you wanted…”

“What about Ross?” Dean interrupts. He fumbles, trying to pull away from Sam, but Sam’s too quick for him, just tightening his hold and wrapping his arms around Dean from behind, holding him in place. 

“He’d be okay, Dean, he’d be with Dad. And they could hunt, it would be okay,” he says, trying to use his most persuasive tone of voice. He turns his head, eyes falling over the other bed, over Ross, dead to the world, where they left him only ten minutes earlier. He looks curiously vulnerable, young and sweet – all adjectives that Sam would never, ever use to describe Ross, but that spring into his brain now. _I never gave him a chance_ , he thinks, _right from the start, when he first came to us, I didn’t give him a chance_ … The words flash and beat in his brain like the eureka moment of a revelation. He blinks, tries to push it all away – the pointless, useless guilt – and concentrate on Dean lying here in his arms, their bodies entwined, but he feels stupidly choked up, like he’s on the edge of a dumb crying jag.

“He’d be okay, he’d like having Dad to himself,” he repeats, trying to believe the words as they come out.

“Sam,” Dean interrupts He sound weary and tense, the opposite to how he sounded five minutes ago, “c’mon, man, you know it can’t be like that. Even if, hell, even if we do get that sonofabitch that got Mom and Jessica, then – what? We split up, you and me go one way, and Dad and Ross the other?” he twists in Sam’s embrace, turning so he can look down at him, the shadows from the overhead lights making his eyes unreadable. “I don’t know if I can do that. And I don’t know." He hesitates, swallows, a muscle twitching at the edge of his jaw. “Dad – he, uh, I don’t know if he’d want to do that. These last couple of years since you left – it’s been different; he’s not here so much. He's been different, even with Ross…” 

“He was never here so much,” Sam murmurs.

Dean sighs, “Look, whatever. Why are we even talking about this? I thought we were gonna have sex. I even bought lube from a drugstore, specially for tonight. I was freakin’ _prepared_ for this.”

The corner of his mouth crooks, a smug, self-defensive quirk that’s all Dean, along with that cheesy-corny glint in his eyes, and Sam finds himself smiling, despite everything. 

“You’re such a hedonist,” he says.

“Tch, whatever, least I know how to have fun,” Dean retorts. “Look, if you want to spend your birthday bitching and moaning about your life, instead of giving me a good, hard fucking-– “

“Hey, _hey_ , I never said that!” Sam protests. “Here, c’mere!” He fists his fingers in the front of Dean’s shirt and pulls him into a kiss. It’s long and hard and bruising, and by the end of it, Dean’s panting into his mouth, breathless and trembling. Sam raises his eyebrows, his _bring-it, bitch_ face and Dean grins, rolls them over so Sam’s underneath.

“You sure about this?” 

“Won’t be the first time I’ve had a dick up my ass,” Dean answers nonchalantly. He looks down at Sam and his smile wavers when he sees the look of shock on Sam’s face, quickly morphing into that self-defensive, defiant shape. “C’mon, man, you could hardly expect me to wait for you?”

He feels his eyes widen, staring up at Dean in disbelief. “You mean – you’ve let other guys fuck you?”

“Course. You know me, try anything once, or more than once, if it’s good.”

He’s speechless for a moment. It shouldn’t be a big deal because, he does know Dean, and he knows Dean wasn't celibate in those years they were apart. And it’s not even like they were ever exclusive before, and he… well, he had Jess, he was going to marry Jess, he loved her, he was crazy about her in a way he’d only ever felt about Dean. 

He has two choices: he can say something, let the tight hard ball of jealousy churning in his gut spew out and let him torture himself by thinking about Dean with those other guys, those people Dean allowed to touch him that way he never permitted Sam. Or, he can let it go. He can stop angsting and regretting every fucking thing, stop wanting to change his life, and start enjoying what he does have.

He takes a deep breath and says, “Oh, well, that’s good, 'cause you’re gonna have to show me what to do.”

Slowly, the tentative smile on Dean’s face breaks, then spreads, becoming wide and genuine. “Dude,” he says, “dude, you are gonna fucking _love_ this.”

 

***

 

 

He dreams about Jessica that night. She’s on the ceiling again and he’s on his bed reaching for her as the flames start to lick around them, sweat obscuring his vision and her voice in his head as her lips turn to ash.

_Sam, why did you abandon me? Why didn’t you tell me?_

He cries out, trying to tell her: I didn’t know, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize, I’m sorry...

_Four months, Sam, you only waited four months before you crawled into bed with him. I was still warm, Sam, when you looked at him like that._

He can’t answer, his mouth won’t move, body locking into place, sheets wet and clammy around him, folding over him, wrapping him up like a shroud. 

_I always knew there was someone else. I could feel it when we made love, Sam, I could feel him there. Your brother, Sam._

He wakes up, and for a second he can’t move. He's paralyzed, limbs locked in place, glued to the wet, clammy sheets. He sees Dean leaning over him, his body warm beside him where they both passed out.

“Sam?” Dean whispers.

He whimpers, he still can’t move, he wants to say his brother’s name, but the words are stuck behind the tight swell of panic in his chest.

“Hey, Sammy, it’s okay, it’s okay,” whispers Dean and he slides closer. “I’ve gotcha, it’s okay.”

Sam blinks and feels his muscles slowly start to unlock, body begin to unpeel from the sheets, his fingers and toes moving again. He shivers, tense, wound-up muscles convulsing. The stiffness and tightness in his limbs hurts, like pins and needs. He blinks, feels a warm, salty wetness start to slide down over his cheeks. He feels worn out, exhausted, body over-used and barely responsive to his petrified, foggy brain.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” says Dean softly.

He wants to say it out loud: no, it’s not, it’s not okay, Dean, you don’t know, you didn’t see. But Dean’s so close, so warm and so familiar that Sam just turns and presses his wet face into his brother’s shoulder. Dean wraps him up, fingers digging into his horrible, stiff skin, kneading away gently at his locked-up shoulders and worn-out muscles.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’ll be okay,” Dean repeats.

His voice is low and mesmerizing, and Sam still can’t speak, his voice-box still unresponsive, still locked somewhere in that hideous dream reality of Jess above them, soft flakes of ash raining from the ceiling, scattering over them both, shrouding him and Dean.

“It’s okay, you know, I’ve read about this, I know about this. Nightmares and sleep paralysis. And it’s normal, man, don’t worry, it’s totally normal. I’ve gotcha, okay, and it’s all okay. After everything you’ve been through, dude. You don’t have to hide anything. You don’t have to pretend in front of me, Sammy.”

He moves his lips, tries to force the air out, tongue and lips and vocal chords grinding awake, slowly coming out of that stupor. “Dean,” he gasps, “Dean…”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s okay, I’m here,” promises Dean.

 

 

 

****

 

 

Ross wakes up to a headache that’s worse than anything he remembers experiencing for a long time. Worse than that head injury in Witicha when the little spirit motherfucker whammied him against that goddamn tombstone. His brain feels foggy, rusty and not quite with it, and he imagines his brain cells, a grey, soggy mass of sponginess, soaked with alcohol and all that freaking pot they smoked last night, and it’s like he can feel the brain-cells, one by one, running out his ears, and onto the pillow. Man, he was fucking wasted last night.

He groans and thinks about rolling onto his back, but it’s too much effort. He can hear the steady drum-drum of water, and it seems to take his slow, murky brain a freaking week to recognize it as the shower, someone’s in the bathroom, taking a shower. Well, they better not steal all the goddamn hot water. At some point, he is gonna get up and when he does, the first thing he’s gonna do is take a piss and then have a shower, God, he’s fucking busting for a piss.

He blinks his eyes fully open and concentrates on taking in his surroundings. The curtains are still half-closed, and he’s dimly grateful for it, he’s way too hungover to deal with full-on, natural sunlight at the moment. Slowly, he takes in the other bed; Dean’s lying on top of the sheets, naked except for his boxer shorts, sheets rucked up underneath him. He’s in his favorite sleeping position – on his front, with his hand tucked under the pillow, touching the knife or gun he always keeps under there, other arm dangling off the side of the bed. The soft, yellow light coming through the curtains is spilling over Dean, making him look like he’s a freaking marble statue, turning the hairs on his legs golden-brown, and making the damp curve of his back gleam like he’s been oiled up and not just like he’s really gross and sweaty. Dean’s face is turned towards Ross and Ross can see how his eyelashes are fluttering – he must be dreaming – how his mouth is half-parted, his lips red and sort of puffy, and his skin all flushed, probably all the freaking booze he hogged after Ross passed out.

Ross stares at him for a long time, he feels strange, a weird, niggling urge to get up, to steal over there, just those few feet between them, and touch him, run his fingers over the soft, downy hairs on his legs, or the gleaming damp skin of his arms and back. The urge is like a horrible knot in his stomach, a peculiar, prickly itch edging up his spine, he feels hot and feverish, and he’s suddenly aware of just how gross he is, lying here in his clothes from last night, the air around them too close, salty and sickly with the combined smells of too much sweat, cigarette smoke and booze.

He exhales difficultly, trying to calm, push away the weird, tangled-up feeling in his stomach, the mean, throbbing ache in his head. He feels confused, his brain still stupidly foggy, but the longer he lies there, staring at his oldest brother, at the curves and lines of his body, so effortless and powerful - the way Ross has always strived to look - the more this freaky, terrifying urge to touch him refuses to go away. It’s nothing new, he tells himself. When he was younger he was always fighting to be close to Dean and Dad, craving affection, stealing hugs, crawling into Dad’s lap when his father was soft and pliable, wanting to feel Dad’s big hands over him, warm and close and safe, smoothing over his hair and murmuring deep, comforting words into his skin. And when Dad wasn’t around, it was Dean he craved, Dean he needed. He’d curl up next to him on the couch while they watched TV, snuggle up against his body, press his face against Dean’s chest and breathe him in. It was normal, just a kid thing, just the way he was, and obviously, this – what he’s feeling right now – it’s the same urge, the same need for comfort and reassurance.

The door to the bathroom creaks open and Ross starts, feeling his heart jump, like, almost literally miss a beat. He quickly closes his eyes, pushing away the sudden rush of embarrassment, though he totally doesn’t know why he’s feeling embarrassed, it’s only Sam – Sam who used to _fuck_ Dean – he, _he_ has nothing to be ashamed of, not when faced with Sam’s guilt, and Jesus, whatever, he’s not fucking ashamed. He feels his heart thump, the pulse throb in his chest, and he becomes aware, after what feels like freaking years, that he hasn’t heard Sam move, Sam must still be standing in the bathroom doorway. Slowly, carefully, he opens his eyes and sneaks a look at Sam. Sam _is_ standing in the bathroom doorway, just like he suspected, a tiny-ass towel built for midgets, never mind ginormous nerds like Sam, knotted around his waist, barely covering anything. His hair is plastered to his head and dripping big fat drops down his chest and face, but Sam doesn’t seem aware of that, he’s just staring, looking past Ross, over Ross, at the other bed. At Dean.

Ross watches his brother’s face, he doesn’t need to worry about being caught, Sam can’t see anything right now that isn’t Dean. Sam's mouth is parted, as if caught on an “ohh”, his eyes wide and dark, his tongue licking over his lips. He swallows and Ross can practically track the movement of Sam’s throat. If he was to take a picture right now, then he could sell it with the tagline: _this is what sexual desire looks like…_

A rush of nausea wells up in his gut and he presses his face back into the pillow, trying hard to choke it back. The breath catches in his throat and he coughs, disgusting, acid bile in his mouth.

Sam starts, stammers out, “Oh my God, Ross, you okay?”

He finishes coughing, swallows and raises his head to look at Sam. He’s blushing hugely, a red hot flush all over his face and chest, eyelashes fluttering nervously – total Sammy caught out right now mode.

“Only just,” he groans, “feel like fuckin’ shit.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” Sam gulps. He comes forward, making this weird sort of sympathy face. “Yeah, you were pretty wasted, dude. I you want, I’ll get you some water and some Advil.”

“God, yeah, anything.” He sinks back into the pillows, lets out a long breath, hearing Sam padding about the room, still wearing that tiny fucking towel.

Sam leans over him and deposits a glass and some pills on his nightstand, “There you go."

Ross grunts out a thank you and struggles into a sitting position. He takes his pills and drains all the water as he watches Sam change.

“Hey, you know,” Sam turns to him and drops his towel, completely fucking naked now, and yeah, okay, so Ross is kinda used to that, the three of them wander about naked in front of each other all the freaking time, but right now, after watching Sam perve on Dean for what felt like a fucking year, it’s just way too much. “Yesterday, it was pretty awesome, you know," Sam says. “I just wanna say thanks for it.” He hesitates, shrugs as he pulls on some boxers (thank God), his enormous brow furrowing as he glances across at Ross, “It just – woulda been nice if Dad’d called me.”

“Dude, Dad didn’t call for my birthday, or for Dean’s. What makes you think he’d have remembered yours?”

Sam shrugs again, presses his lips together. “Dunno. Just – I guess – it was stupid to expect him to remember, right? Not like he ever did much before.”

“Whatever,” Ross says. But the retort’s automatic, no real feeling there. He watches Sam pull an undershirt on over his head and shake his hair in that shaggy dog way of his, sending water droplets flying - which… still so annoying. “I figure he’s, you know, busy. Got more important shit to worry about that your freakin’ birthday.”

Sam just looks up and sighs, like, way to be an enormous fucking martyr, bro. And yeah, okay, so maybe, _maybe_ , Sammy might have a point. Dad used to forget their birthdays all the damn time, but this year he forgot all three of them. That's record. Although part of him is secretly pleased that Dad forgot about Sam as well as him and Dean, because, man, Dad just remembering Sam’s birthday would so not be fair, not when Sam was the one who fucking _abandoned_ them, there’s another part of him that’s just getting more and more worried. Dad told them that he was on this thing’s trail, that it wasn’t safe for him to be with them, that he was getting closer. Fair enough, okay, Ross gets that, Dad’s right. But Dad wouldn’t have said any of that shit if he didn’t mean it, if this evil sonofabitch wasn’t really some huge-ass deal, and all that – knowing all that, knowing that Dad’s out there on his own, chasing it, while it’s probably chasing him back – well, it sure doesn’t make anything any fucking easier.

 

 

When Ross was ten, Dean and Sam bought him a camera for his birthday. It wasn't anything special, just a real cheap Kodak knock-off, but he didn't care, he loved it. He can still remember the fake-serious look on Dean's face when he handed it over. "Ten years old. Double figures now, dude."

They were concerned Dad wouldn't let him keep it 'cause Dad had weird rules about photographs. At the time, Ross just figured Dad was making it up because he didn't like his picture being taken. He only found out about the federal kidnapping charges years later, the ones Dad had gotten slapped with cause of him, the ones that meant, even if they’d ever wanted to, they couldn’t stay in one place for very long.

But he was too excited at the time to not show Dad his present, the first decent one he’d gotten off Dean and Sammy in, like, ever. Dad seemed pleased for him, smiling and shaking his head, and exchanging looks with Dean like it was some big private joke, like you’ll regret this, son, and where’d you and Sammy get the money from anyways? Dean just shrugged and said something about yard work, which even Ross knew was a lie, the neighborhood they lived in was too fucking poor for people to pay others to do their yard work, that’s if they even had a yard.

He loved taking pictures. Having them developed was more of a problem because they never stayed in one place for long enough to send them away in those envelopes, and the one hour service places were too goddamn expensive. Occasionally, Dad would give in and let Ross waste $15 on getting his pictures developed, which Sammy and Dean always bitched about. Until they got the pictures back and then the three of them would crowd around the table of some diner or some motel kitchen table to pour over them, plenty of ammunition for mocking each other's stupid-ass faces. 

He took hundreds of pictures, though what the fuck happened to them all he can’t remember. He has two left which he keeps in his wallet: one of Dad, and another of himself and his brothers taken by Dad on the day he got the camera. Dad made them squeeze onto the crappy couch, “my three boys,” he said as he posed them with a big, proud smile, Ross and Sammy either side of Dean like freaking bookends. He’s grinning so hard in that picture that he looks possessed, though he doesn’t look as bad as Sam who was about to open his mouth to whine about something when Dad clicked the shutter and Sam got caught like that forever, mouth gaping open like a total dork. Dean just looks kinda sleazy. He used to do this lame, smirking thing with his mouth and eyebrows which he thought was the coolest thing ever, except it really wasn't..

The photo of Dad was one Ross took himself, sneakily, 'cause Dad really _did_ hate having his picture taken. He can remember doing it, one of his clearest memories. They stopped for gas somewhere and the three of them went to the bathroom, Dad always used to make them do that whenever he stopped to gas up. _Get out and go now, boys, I’m not stopping again for at least 300 miles,_ he would say, and Ross learned learned from bitter experience that Dad really wasn’t lying when he said that. Ross was carrying the camera at the time, he was always carrying the thing in those days, like Jimmy freaking Olson, and he came out of the bathroom to see Dad leaning against the side of the car as he gassed up. He took the picture then, framing the shot just like he’d read in a magazine he’d found in an ER waiting room: _Amateur Photographer_ or something like that. The sun was just coming up and it framed long shadows around Dad, bathing him in this sort of yellow glow. Everyone was impressed when they saw the final shot and it’s lived in his wallet ever since.

 

 

 

They stop at a picnic spot not far from the Utah-Colorado border, it’s full of families and Dean watches some enormous family of ugly Mormon-looking kids playing tag with a goofy smile on his face. He turns back to them and shakes his head.

“Man, that takes me back. You remember that year you got obsessed with Ultimate Frisbee? Every damn time we stopped, you’d get that thing out and make us toss it around.” He looks at Sam, shakes his head again. “Man, of all the fuckin’ lame-ass sports to get into – you had to pick the lamest.”

For once, Sam doesn’t look pissed by Dean’s remarks, just shrugs and half-laughs. “Yeah, well, it could've been worse, I could've been school mascot.”

He turns to Ross with raised eyebrows, while Dean snorts out a huge laugh like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard in years and leans over to whap Ross on the arm. Ross jerks his arm back at glares at both of them, assholes. Whatever, being the school mascot was not totally lame, definitely not as lame as Ultimate Frisbee. Anything that got you _that_ close to _that_ many cheerleaders – how could that ever be considered lame? Unless of course, you were a total gayface like Sammy and were scared of chicks. And fuck them – fuck both of them - 'cause it had fucking worked, he’d never have gotten anywhere near Alison Chambers, never mind banged her that one time after her prom date dumped her, if he hadn't been school mascot. Besides, whatever, it was that _one freaking time_ and Dean and Sam were still bringing it up. Well, he can be the bigger person now, he’s not gonna retaliate. He presses his lips together and turns to stare at the creepy-blond Mormon kids.

Dean takes a long drag on his cigarette, tilts his head back and attempts to blow smoke rings up into the air.

“Dude, you suck at that,” Ross says, pleased to see Dean’s face fall as he shoots him a hurt look, Dean’s totally the sort who can dish it but can’t take it. Ross takes a drag on his own cigarette, tilts his head back and blows his own smoke rings into the air. They’re pretty wonky, not that good at all, really, but they’re way fucking better than Dean’s lame-ass efforts. He smirks, raises his eyebrows in Dean’s direction while Dean rolls his eyes at him.

“You’re both pathetic,” says Sam, but his voice is all agreeable, all cool and easy-going. And, goddamn it, but it’s kinda freaking Ross out. What is _with_ Sam? Why is he so laid-back and serene and fucking _happy_ all of a sudden, when only months ago he was continually bitching and whining and crying into his pocket-handkerchief (okay, so he wasn’t really doing the last thing, but whatever, still totally valid).

Ross wanders off to the men’s room, leaves them to clear up the trash and Dean to have another cigarette before they get back into the car. The men’s room is surprisingly clean, there’s even a goddamn attendant, watching him carefully through narrowed eyes. Ross nods at him and goes on into one of the stalls. He sits on the seat to take a piss, thinking suddenly of the first time the four of them ever took a road trip together, a couple of days after Dad had snatched him from that foster home. Dad rounded them up, bundled him and Sammy into the backseat of the car, telling him, “Don’t worry, Ross, we’re going on a road-trip to Sammy and Dean’s Uncle Bobby’s place. We like to take trips sometimes, don’t we, boys?” Dean and Sammy nodded solemnly, muttering, “Yes, sir.” Dad tossed bedding into the backseat so he and Sammy could sleep while Dean climbed into the front with Dad, an enormous road atlas spread out across his knees, trying to follow the state highways with his tiny flashlight while Dad drove like a freaking demon was on his ass.

He can remember that, remember what it felt like to tangle his short, skinny legs with Sam’s in that stolen king-size duvet, remember the way Sammy glared at him when he realized he could no longer stretch out over the entire seat.

They stopped at a scary, dark rest-stop, just like this one, full of enormous, creepy pine trees that waved and shook and rustled in a way that made Ross clutch hard onto Dean’s hand, Sam tagging along behind them, kicking up dust and pine needles with his sneakers. The lights weren’t working in the men’s room, and Dean had to shine his flashlight while he and Sammy peed. They washed up and brushed their teeth afterwards, Dean standing over them still holding the flashlight so he could make sure they got behind their ears and brushed their teeth properly. Dad was waiting by the car for them when they finally trudged back, and he nodded at Dean and smiled at Ross, bending down to swing him up into his arms and give him a smacking kiss on his forehead. He lowered Ross into the back seat, ruffling his hair as Sammy slid in from the other side. He helped them tighten their seat belts and pulled the stolen motel comforter around the two of them. “You go to sleep now, boys. We’ll be at Uncle Bobby’s by morning.”

He sighs, the memory of his father’s face, of that proud smile and the way he’d say his name, _Ross, my boy_ … suddenly so vivid. He swallows, pushes back the hot swell of grief that’s nestled into his gut. He opens his wallet and slides out that old photo of Dad, the one he took so long ago. It’s kinda worn, creased and torn around the edges, but it’s still Dad, Dad staring off into the distance, looking younger than he remembers, deep in thought, probably thinking over some case, with that crease he’d get between his eyebrows when he was trying to figure things out. He stares down at it, feels his eyes start to blur over with tears.

This morning, he was staring out the window of the car and he was remembering a hunt he and Dean and Dad had been on a couple of years back, just after Sam left them – another poltergeist - and it occurred to him all of a sudde, that he couldn’t remember how Dad had looked afterwards. He couldn’t remember the expression Dad had gotten on his face when he finished the job and exorcised the poltergeist, that joyful, big-damn-hero smile of his that he’d always turn on him and Dean when they’d won. The image was gone, wiped from his brain. He grazes his finger over Dad’s face, trying to commit it to memory, it’s stupid, he should be able to remember this – remember Dad – it hasn’t been _that_ long, but his brain’s playing tricks on him, torturing him in a way that hurts the most.

He swipes the back of his hand over his face, smearing away the pathetic, useless tears, and slides the picture back into his wallet. He stands and flushes, dropping a $5 bill into the attendant’s tip plate as he makes his way back out into the sun, to where his brothers are waiting for him.

 


	7. Chapter 7

When Dean goes down in the basement in Illinois, Ross’s heart stops. Sam is already pushing him aside, charging down the stairs and yelling. It’s like those moments in Vietnam movies when a grenade goes off and the screen whites out, everyone frozen and deafened by the explosion, until they come to in a shower of gross body parts. But Dean’s not coming to; he’s shaking in a pool of water, Sam’s arms around him, screaming something over and over at Ross.

When Ross finally manages to move, it’s automatic, the training kicking in as he stumbles down the stairs and helps Sam haul Dean back up and outside. Dean’s still terrifyingly out of it, unconscious and pale in Sam’s arms. The kids are standing out by the front door, clutching each other and staring at them with cared eyes. Sam completely ignores them, focused only on Dean as he manhandles him into the backseat of the car, barely waiting for Ross to get into the passenger side before he squeals off.

Dean doesn’t look like Dean in the hospital. He looks small and vulnerable and nothing like the big brother Ross is used to. He sits beside Sam in one of the really freaking uncomfortable plastic chairs in the corridor outside Dean’s room while the doctors do things to him inside. Sam’s perfectly still beside him, like some weird, life-size statue, his fingers wrapped around his knees, all white-knuckled with worry.

Ross, on the other hand, can’t sit still. He gets up, paces up and down the corridor, backtracking past Dean’s room. He pauses outside the closed door and listens to the beep of machines and low muffled voices.

He's terrified, truly terrified, and he can't stop worrying about what he's gonna do if Dean dies. It's fucked up and selfish of him, but he doesn't know what he'd do without Dean. He knows he's got Dad, and yeah, there's Sam too, but he and Sammy together... just the two of them with no Dean-shaped buffer between them... he'd give it a week, maybe two before they'd fall apart. And Dad. God, Dad is fuck knows where.

Honestly, and this has gotta be the right time for that kind of soul-searching honesty shit, then deep down, there’s a part of him that fears that maybe Dad is kinda done with them. Even if Dad did ever come back, then it might only be for a few weeks before he’d be off again, continuing his epic quest for the sonofabitch that destroyed his dead wife. Dad’s been away from them for so long, and even before, when it was just him and Dean and Dad, when Sam was at school, it wasn’t like it used to be. Dad would leave him and Dean alone for weeks and weeks to work their own jobs, only coming together if it was a really tough case and then, he'd leave them again as soon as they were done.

Dean's always there every day, as big as life and as large as the universe, riding his ass about training, taking turns who gets the first shower, having each other's backs in fights. Dean there to decide where they go, what job they take, which motel they sleep at, what they have for dinner, even what freaking music they listen to. Dean there, always beside him, always taking the decisions – the tough ones and the easy ones – Dean there to earn the money, run the scams, always with a plan and if not a plan, then an escape route.

God, there is nothing, no place, no part, no fucking _inch_ of his life where Dean isn't present. They do everything together, they always have. Dean taught him how to drive, how to shave, how to pick up chicks, how to boil a goddamn egg, even how to piss standing up, all that normal everyday kinda shit he got from Dean. And now, Dean might not be around anymore. What will he do without him? Seriously, what the fuck is he going to do without Dean?

He can see now that he's failed, that Ross Winchester Fails At Life. All those years when he thought he was right and Sammy was wrong, he had it all totally screwed up, 'cause he was the one who was in the wrong all along, while Sam got it. Ross has never had to survive on his own, he's never had to become “his own person” and all that Oprah-style bullshit, never had to think for himself, not really. And he has to give his middle brother some credit here, because Sam left their family and went somewhere on his own, somewhere where he had to make his own decisions, where there wasn’t Dean or Dad to tell him what to do, no Dean or Dad to look after him. Ross has never really gotten this before – what Sam did when he abandoned them - because how the fuck did Sam manage on his own? He doesn’t know, he knows, like, absolutely nothing about Sam’s life at Stanford, Sam’s not exactly been all care-and-share with the details since they've been on the road together, and let’s face it, even if he had been sharing, then Ross probably wouldn’t have listened. But he needs to know now, he needs to understand how Sam did it.

He shoots a quick glance at his brother. Sam’s lips are pressed so tightly together with nerves and worry that they’ve almost disappeared; his eyes pink and bloodshot and dry, hair greasy and disgusting. He probably just looks as bad, both of them haven’t slept or showered since… Jesus, two days, three? He doesn’t know, time’s kinda become meaningless. There are lines either side of Sam’s mouth, cut into his cheeks where his dimples usually go, those dimples that are virtually identical to the ones on Ross’s own face – except there’s no dimples on Sammy's face right now, just worry and exhaustion.

Sam loves Dean, he thinks, Sam loves Dean as much as he does, of that he's completely sure, but Sam _did_ leave, Sam left Dean and he coped. He coped really fucking well, acing the college thing and dating that hot girlfriend of his, Lovely Jessica. He feels a twinge of sympathy as he remembers her, how nice she'd been when she'd opened the door to these two strange guys who claimed to be her boyfriend's brothers, how excited she'd been, "Oh my God, Dean and Ross, wow! I never thought I'd ever get to meet you guys!" So freaking genuine and sweet it was painful. And she'd given them all those cookies, pulled out photo albums while they waited, so happy to show them all the pictures of her and Sam and their smiling, perfect friends, Sam's looking totally unrecognizable as the brother Ross remembered.

He can't see that for himself. He can't see himself in that life, it's so totally alien, like a crazy bizarro-land. He can only see himself as he is, as _they_ are: the Winchester boys. Hunters. Going from town to town as the job takes them, destroying evil and saving stupid civilians. He knows, course he does, he's not fucking stupid, that as lifestyles go, theirs is pretty fucking dangerous, but it's their life, it's what they've been raised in, it's what they are.

He sighs, thumps his hand against the wall in frustration, bites out, "What the fuck’s going on?"

Sam jerks his head up, but he says nothing.

“I wish they’d just tell us what was going on.”

Still no response from Sam.

“Why are they taking so fuckin’ long?”

Sam twitches in his seat, but he continues to ignore him, staring blankly at the opposite wall.

Ross sighs and swings around, paces back towards the end of the corridor, glancing at the dull motelish art, the bland cream walls. He’s doubling back on himself, heading back towards Sam, when the door to Dean’s room swings open. Immediately Sam’s on his feet, leaping out of his seat and pouncing on the doctor just leaving Dean’s room.

"How is he?” Sam demands. His voice sounds breathless and he’s almost, like, vibrating. Ross stays where he is, rooted to the spot, a couple of yards away, gaze flicking between them: Sam and the doctor, the doctor and Sam.

The doctor purses his lip and gives Sam his professional sad face, it’s like the one Dad uses on grieving relatives and it makes Ross's heart clench up, the breath catch in his chest.

“I’m afraid it’s not good news. The electrocution triggered a massive heart attack. We’ve managed to stabilize him but his heart is severely damaged. We can try and keep him comfortable at this point, but I give him a couple weeks at most.”

“There must be some sort of treatment you can give him. Something you can do!” protests Sam. His eyes are looking wonky, twitching as if he’s about to start crying, his face no longer hard and tough-guy, but wobbly, like it’s about to melt.

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do. We can’t work miracles.”

The doctor gives Sam one last sympathetic look, sparing an extra sympathy-laden glance for Ross, before he turns on his heel. The look burns against Ross’s retinas, and seriously, he’s about thisfuckingclose to wiping that fucking bullshit sympathy crap off the prick’s face with his goddamned fist.

“Don’t say anything,” hisses Sam, taking one enormous stride towards him. He grabs onto Ross’s arm, curls his fingers tightly around his bicep, squeezing in a way that’s going to leave marks later.

“Listen, Ross, this isn’t it. There’s stuff we know that they don’t. We can. We can fix this. Right? We’re gonna fix this.” He peers intensely down at Ross, eyes wide and burning up, the perfect picture of a totally batshit crazy person. Ross nods, he seems to have lost the power of speech, gulping and staring and nodding like a freaking nodding dog, frozen in place by the blazing, terrifying look in Sam’s eyes and his huge fucking hand wrapped around his arm.

“C’mon,” Sam hisses and he drags Ross behind him into Dean’s room.

Dean’s awake, but he looks like shit, worse than shit, and that’s saying something, because Ross has seen him looking pretty fucking shitty over the years. He feels numb as he stares at his brother, Dean is talking to Sam, jabbering about daytime TV in his usual lame-ass Dean way, acting all like this is normal, like this is just another day.

“Hey, you alright, kiddo?”

Ross jumps, gulps and nods, glancing at Dean then quickly away again.

Ross,” Dean repeats, his voice getting lower, his stern, big-brother voice. Slowly, Ross brings his eyes back to focus on Dean. Dean's own eyes are narrowed on him in, as if he's trying to figure something out. Eventually, he looks away, sighs, points a finger at Sam. "Sam, listen to me. You gotta make sure he’s okay, make sure he eats and he showers. And you both better keep up with the training, cause if Dad found out you were slackin’, you know he’d ride my ass, dead or not.”

Sam’s face crumples again and he ducks his head, “Jesus, Dean – don’t."

“Sammy. I’m totally fucking serious! You fuck this up, I’m coming back to haunt you - both of you.”

“That’s not funny,” mumbles Sam.

“Oh come on, it’s pretty funny.”

There’s just silence for what feels like a long time, Dean’s dumb joke hanging in the air between them.

Finally, Dean sighs again, says, “Look, it’s a dangerous gig, we all know it. I drew the short straw.”

Ross watches Sam raise his head, eyes on Dean for a long moment, he can feel the breath catching in his throat, his fingers flexing and unflexing, hear the sounds of footsteps in the corridor outside. Suddenly, Sam spins around, pushes a chair out of his way, legs screeching on the tiled floor as he storms out the room, door clattering shut behind him.

Ross stares after him, stares at the door, stares at the place where Sam has just left.

“Ross.”

Dean’s voice makes him jump, brings him back to himself, he turns to look at his brother. Dean is watching him closely, a concerned crease between his eyebrows.

“Go after him,” Dean says.

The instinct to do what Dean says is one of the first Ross ever remembers, one of the first rules that was ever drummed into him, and if he’s completely truthful, one of the things that has kept them both alive this long. Only Dean is not going to be around much longer, Dean’s going to die in the next two weeks, that’s fourteen days, fourteen fucking days.

“Ross? You listening to me?”

Ross ducks his head, nodding and blinking, suddenly aware of the tears fringing his eyelashes, threatening any moment to roll down his cheeks, make him look like the goddamn pussy he feels like. Why is Dean doing this? Can’t Dean see that he’s upset? Why can’t he just comfort him like he’s done a million times before? He doesn’t want tough love, he wants reassurance, he wants Dean to tell him that he’s gonna be okay, that he’s not gonna die, that that stupid asshole doctor didn’t know what he was talking about, that he’d gotten his charts or whatever mixed up, and that Dean is gonna be fine, hell, he’s just about ready to get the fuck out of this dump and go get some beers.

Dean doesn’t say anything like that though, just keeps talking, voice relentless and hard, as brutal and commanding as Dad used to be, no time for sympathy, no time for reassurance. Soldiers in the field don’t need reassurance, they need cold, hard facts, they need orders.

“Go and make sure he’s okay. Listen to me. Sam’s gonna need you. You gotta be there for each other. This is important, Ross, I’m not fuckin’ bullshitting here. And I know I told him the same thing, I told him he gotta look after you. But it cuts both ways, dude. And he’s had enough shit to deal with, with his girl…” Dean breaks off, a sudden quiver to his voice. Ross looks up, Dean looks like he’s struggling, tongue flicking over his lips in that way that means he’s uncomfortable, that he’s wrestling with something, like, almost struggling to keep up this tough-guy mask. But he beats it, course he does, it’s Dean, and he looks over at Ross with his taking-not-shit look. “You hear me?”

Ross takes in a breath, his voice cracking and choking, and he's crying, God, he’s really fucking crying now, those goddamn tears flowing down his face, and all he wants to do is sit down on Dean’s bed and press his face into Dean's lap and cry because he can't fucking take this. "Dean..."

"Don't," says Dean and he sounds scarily close to something himself. "Don't do this, Littlest Brother. I'm relying on you."

He nods, daring for a moment to look up. He swipes his palm over his face spreading the hot tears across his cheeks and nose and eyes, like they’re soap, like he’s cleaning himself, 'cause he’s gotta be dirty, grimy, he and Sam haven't washed. They haven't had chance to do anything since killing that rawhide in that basement, since Dean went down.

He nods again, just keeps nodding, that fucking stupid nodding dog again, “Yeah, yeah, okay,” he manages.

“Sweet,” Dean says. His mouth crooks faintly, a weak version of his usual blinding grin. “Knew I could rely on you.”

 

 

Ross is the one who finds the faith healer. Well, he doesn’t find it exactly, Jefferson mentions it when he calls him, saying he’s heard some good reports of him; _he might even be the real deal, kid, this guy of mine in Colorado, swears up and down he saved his cousin’s life_. Personally, Ross thinks it sounds like a crock of shit, and he knows that Dad would agree, but Dad isn’t here, Dad hasn’t even called them, despite the messages he’s left and the ones he definitely knows Sam has.

He feels kinda rebellious when he does mention it, knowing that Dean would call bullshit, that Dad would too, but Sam is different, and really, Ross is about ready to try anything. For once, he and Sam are in the same place on something: both willing to put their lives on hold to save their favorite brother, both willing to believe anything, put their faith any fucking where. As predicted, Sam seizes upon it with typical intensity, his eyes going dark and crazy as if he thinks he’s already found a cure.

“These things are usually fake,” Ross tells him, feeling weirdly responsible for the look of hope on Sam’s face.

“I don’t care, we’re gonna try it,” Sam says flatly.

So they research it, 'cause God forbid they do anything without fucking researching it first, this is Sam after all, a scary, intense and crazy version of Sam, but still Sam. Ross gets on the phone to Jefferson’s guy’s contacts, trying to get the real deal on this Roy LeGrange. Apparently, he works out of a tent in the middle of Nebraska. They’re gonna put the fate of their brother in the hands of some religious weirdo who works out of a fucking tent.

“There’s lots of lore on faith healers,” says Sam eagerly, still with that scary fanatical look in his eyes. “Recorded instances of genuine healing miracles going back centuries,” he continues, fingers drumming against the side of his laptop. "You know, this might - this might work, dude. You did good, you did real good finding this." He grins at Ross, a slightly terrifying grin, but still a grin, his eyes are shining and his face is all lit up, Ross stares at him and can't stop smiling back, Sam so rarely looks like this so when he does it's weirdly infectious, like, you can't help catching it too. "We might do it," he continues, "we might save him." He smiles again and pushes one hand through his hair, it's gotten even more lank and greasy, and Jesus, he so needs to wash it. Instead, barely noticing, he looks back down at his laptop.

“Dude, you look like shit,” he says. “You should shower.”

“Huh?” Sam looks up, blinks at him. "What?"

"You should shower. I can call that contact of Jefferson's again while you're in there."

Sam hesitates, eventually he shakes his head, "No time for that. Gotta keep lookin’.” He looks back down at the laptop, starts clicking away again.

Ross sighs, "Sam, dude! For fuck's sake, just take a fuckin' shower, already. You'll be, like, five minutes! Dean'll be way pissed if you turn up again tomorrow reekin' like you do now."

Sam doesn’t look up at him, instead, without looking, he picks up his pen and tosses it in Ross's direction, it hits him on the side of the face.

“Ow! Goddamn asshole!”

Sam smiles to himself, but still doesn’t look up.

Ross slides off the bed, cracks his knuckles, "Yeah, well, whatever, you sit there stinkin'. I'm gonna go get a coupla sodas. You want one?”

Sam nods and Ross turns to pick up his jacket. He’s about to leave the room when there’s a knock on the door. Immediately, Sam’s head jerks up, they exchange a quick look, Sam slides his hand out, grabs onto the sawed-off lying on his nightstand, Ross takes his own pearl-handled colt out his jacket pocket. Glancing at Sam again, Sam gives him a nod and holding the gun high, just inside his open jacket, he yanks the door open.

It’s Dean. Leaning against the doorframe, wearing one of Sam’s hoodies and looking… God… looking dead on his feet.

Ross’s mouth falls open in shock and he gasps out, “Dean? What the fuck are you -"

“Never mind that, you gonna let me in?” growls Dean.

Ross swallows and pulls the door open; Dean wavers a bit, but he manages to stagger in. Ross reaches out for him, steadies him with one hand. Sam is already crossing the room, coming up to them, passing one enormous arm around Dean’s shoulders.

“Hey, hey, careful with the merchandise,” bitches Dean as they help him to one of the beds. “Jesus, you two would make some rough-ass nurses.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” breathes out Sam, taking the seat right next to Dean and refusing to move his arm from around Dean's shoulders.

Dean sighs and turns his head to give him one of his unimpressed looks. “Dude, I was not gonna stay at a hospital where the nurses aren’t even hot.” He tries to jerk away from Sam, “Hey, Sammy, you wanna give a dyin’ guy some room here?”

Sam stiffens as if he’s been slapped in the face and he shifts a couple of inches, his expression crumpling in a way that makes Ross start to feel sorry for him.

 

 

Dean takes the bed that Sam’s been sleeping in. Ross keeps his bed and Sam insists that he’s not tired, that he wants to look into this faith healer guy some more, that he’s found a site with some video footage. He sets up at the kitchenette table, laptop in front of him. Ross watches him for a while, but it’s not long before he falls asleep, he’s totally fucking exhausted.

He wakes up a couple of hours later, startled awake by something. He blinks his eyes open and peers around the room. It’s dark, and the only light is coming from the laptop, sitting open on the kitchenette table, screensaver bathing the kitchen wall in eerie, too-white light.

_“C’mon, Sammy, c’mon, dude, it’ll be alright…”_

Dean's voice.

He listens hard, hears a freaky, choked-off sound. Sam, gotta be Sam.

Shit, so Sam’s crying. And he’s not at the table, or on the couch, which means he's gotta be in the other bed. With Dean.

Ross has got his back to them, lying on his side, facing the kitchenette, and right now, he's not gonna be able to turn around, doesn't want to alert them to his presence, let them know that he’s woken up.

“Dean, God, just – shut up, you’re not… you’re not makin’ this easier." Sam's voice sounds flakey, all chokey, his trying-not-to-cry voice. He sniffs and Ross hears the shuffle of blankets, bed creaking as they shift around.

They're probably holding each other, he thinks dully, gotta be, these beds are too fucking small for anything else. Sam’s probably got his hands all over Dean, and Dean’s probably touching him back, running his hands over Sam’s stupid, dirty hair…

“Sammy, I know, but you gotta listen. Please, just. For me, okay? Just listen.”

There’s no response from Sam, so evidently he’s decided to shut the fuck up and listen.

“Look. I’ve only - if. If this doesn’t happen, and if, you know, I buy the farm, then you gotta promise me something, man. Please, Sammy, promise me.”

More rustling sounds and a muffled, choked-off sob from Sam, eventually, he mumbles, “Okay, I promise.”

Dean sighs and even though Dean’s trying to be quiet, trying to deaden the emotion in his voice, Ross can tell that he’s relieved, can hear it in his sigh. “Good boy,” he says gently. “You gotta promise me that you’ll be there for Ross, that you’ll look out for him.”

“Dean – “

“No, shush, listen. I know the two of you have always been – Jesus, like fuckin’ junkyard dogs – and I’ve always kinda felt responsible for that, I know that some of that’s cause of me –“

“Dean, you don’t think that he knows about –“

“Jesus, shut up. No, he doesn’t know. I’d know if he did, he wouldn’t be able to hide it from me,” Dean interrupts hurriedly, his voice cracking. “God, no, that’s one thing, one thing I am so fuckin’ grateful for…” he breaks off, sighs, and Ross hears another rustling sound, then the soft smacking sound of a kiss. He freezes, listens harder, closer, but there are no other noises, no other kiss sounds. So it was just one kiss? Forehead? Cheek? Lips? Somewhere else entirely? The knots in his chest tighten up and he suddenly wants to scream, wants to shout out: _You’re so fuckin’ stupid! Why are you so fuckin’ stupid, Dean? Course I know, I’ve know yours and Sammy's dirty secret for fuckin’ years!_ But he can’t do it, he can’t say it, not now, not when Dean’s…

The blood is thumping so hard in his head that he can’t hear anything, his heart beating so loudly that he’s shocked that neither of them can hear it, he’s only a few feet away, after all. But they're Dean and Sam and they're cocooned in their own little world, and they’re talking again, Dean whispering, his voice intense, talking on and on, talking about _him._

“He’s not like you, he’s never been apart from me or Dad, and I don’t know how he’d manage on his own. So, you gotta stick with him. And I know he can be a punk, but you don’t gotta listen to that shit, cause it's all bullshit, and he’s gonna need you, dude. And I don’t think we can rely on Dad right now, so it’s gotta be you, Sam, please, just promise me that. Just that one thing. I'm beggin' you.” His voice shakes on the plea and he’s suddenly silent, breathing getting harder, tighter, more choked, like, he’s truly beginning to lose it, finally letting his guard down and it's all because... because Dean is scared for _him_.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” murmurs Sam, “Dean, it’s okay, I promise, I promise, okay? I’ll look out for him. We’ll be okay, and you know, it don’t matter anyway, cause we’re gonna fix this. Me and Ross have got it sorted. You know, dude, we can work together sometimes. Hey, you remember that play we were in in middle school? You remember that? Lord of the Flies? We were the twins cause they didn’t have any real fraternal twins in the school who’d do it. And d’you remember how pissed he was? How he used to bitch all the freakin’ time about how we had to share every scene. But we did it, and I think he even kinda enjoyed it, and I enjoyed it. And we kicked ass, we were fuckin' awesome in the end, d'you remember?”

Dean laughs shakily, “Yeah, stole the freakin’ show…”

“Right, right,” says Sam, and he sounds like he’s on the verge of hysteria, trying far too hard with this goddamn nostalgia, heart-warming shit, but Dean’s such a freaking sucker for it.

Ross remembers that play, remembers that bitch of an English teacher, Ms. Danby, making him do it, forcing him to do it with Sam, Sam who already wanted to do it, cause Sammy was such a sad-ass drama-nerd. She told him he was gonna flunk English if he didn’t do it, so he did it, and he and Sammy had to share every scene, match each other's actions perfectly, _like mirror images_ she said every fucking rehearsal, like that was the only freaking direction she knew. It was easy, way easier than they thought, cause they'd already been trained that way, already knew each other's moves, able to match each other strength for strength, action for action, Dad had seen to that. Dean was real proud of them, took a picture of them backstage in their costumes - dressed up like little, skinny savages - with Ross’s camera. Dean came to every freaking performance, and hell, even Dad went to one, Dad and Dean cheering and whistling like they were at a football game when he and Sam took their bows.

He blinks, feels the hot tears roll down his cheeks. Dean’s gonna die, he thinks, it’s still unreal, he still can’t process it… Dean’s gonna die and he’s gonna be left with Sam, and Dean just begged Sam to look after him, because he doesn’t think Ross is good enough to manage on his own. That's what his big brother thinks of him.

There’s another rustling noise, the bed squeaks again and Ross stills, hears one of them climb out of bed.

“Where you goin’?” hisses Dean.

“Gotta, gotta research,” Sam whispers back. “We’re leavin’ first thing, so I gotta work now. And you – you gotta sleep, Dean. You need to keep your strength up.”

Dean sighs heavily, and bitches about something, but Ross can’t hear him clearly. He closes his eyes, tries to clear his mind of all thoughts, he’s gotta sleep too, with Dean out of action and Sam comatose with lack of sleep and too much research, one of them’s got to be functional tomorrow, one of them's got to drive. It’s his time to step up.

 

 

********************************************

 

 

Dean’s pretty fucked up afterwards; Ross can see it in everything he does. Dean may act like some devil-may-care hard-ass but he’s got a guilt-complex as big as Sam’s chip on his shoulder. They practically fucking _fled_ out of Nebraska, after Dean’s touching farewell with the hot, doomed chick, all three of them real eager to put that miserable-ass state a long way behind them.

Dean gets wasted at bars three nights in a row, not even savoring each shot and beer as he downs them without tasting it. But Dean's not going to die anymore, and at this stage that is all that Ross cares about, all that matters. The three of them are still together, Dean's not going to die and things will pan out.

And then, Cassie Robinson goes and leaves a fucking voicemail on Dean's phone.

He made no pretence of the fact he didn't like her for the whole two weeks she and Dean were going out. He's not a good enough person to pretend that he did like her for Dean's sake. She wasn't good enough for Dean, and anyway, it wasn't as if Dean was ever gonna settle with her and stick around in Ohio, or wherever the hell she is these days, and make some sort of life with a job and a house and kids and a family. Dean already has a family, Dean would never just abandon him and Dad and the job. He's a Winchester and he belongs to them. So what was the point? What was the point of Cassie fucking Robinson? And where did she get off dumping Dean in the end anyway? Fucking bitch.

"Believe me, she wouldn't leave a message unless she really needed us," says Dean with a look on his face that Ross doesn’t like one bit.

He scowls, glances between Dean and Sam who looks completely confused. "I don't think we should go there," he tells them.

"This isn't up for negotiation, Ross."

"What? Yes it is! Remember what happened before? Remember what you were like?"

"What? What happened?" interrupts Sam.

Dean grits his teeth and rounds on Ross. "What happened before was none of your goddamned business! And I'm not gonna talk about this. We're going to Missouri."

He slams the door as he gets into the car, and that, more than anything, means that he's _pissed_ because Dean would never hurt his baby like that. Sam looks at Ross again. "What's going on?"

"Some - bitch that he was seein'," grits out Ross. "She dumped his ass and he was, like, fuckin' heartbroken for _months_ , ‘cept now she suddenly decides she needs our help."

Sam looks shocked, though, seriously, what the fuck did he think this was about?

"Dean was seeing someone?"

"Yeah. We were in Ohio, on this job 'bout a year, 18 months ago and he met this girl - Cassie - and I think he was kinda serious about her, cause he told her - he broke the fuckin' rule and he told her about the job, about what we do. Bitch thought he was crazy and kicked his ass to the curb."

"What?" Sam shakes his head in disbelief and leans down to pull the driver's door open to look at Dean. "Dean? Did you _tell_ her about us? About what we did?" Dean gets out the car with a pissed-off huff, pushing Sam away in annoyance, but Sam's not done, following him and shouting: "The one rule! The one thing we were never supposed to tell _anyone. We do what we do and we shut up about it!_ I didn't tell Jessica, and I was with her for a year and a half, and you go and tell this girl from Ohio -"

"Stay out of it, Sam!" Dean yells, shooting death-glares across the roof of the car at Ross.

But Sammy's on a role, shaking his head, voice trembling in anger, "I can't believe you. I lied to Jess for _months_ -"

"Did I ask you to do that?" demands Dean. "Did anyone ask you to do that? You were gone, Sam! You left this family! We didn't know what you were doing. You could've told anyone any fuckin’ thing you wanted - it was your decision not to! Don't you dare go layin’ this shit on me!"

Sam's mouth falls open in shock and Dean's seething, face all red, and Jesus, he's really fucking pissed, the two of them staring and glaring and totally un-fucking-aware of anything else in the goddamned world, and whoa, this so isn't about Cassie or about Sam's girl.

"You told a stranger about us?" Sam repeats, "Some girl you barely knew and you told her -"

Dean interrupts him with a tight, nasty-sounding laugh and Ross is suddenly very pleased that he's not the one in Sam's place right now.

"Oh, dude, yeah, I get it - I see - I see what this is."

"What? What is this, Dean?" Sam advances on Dean, getting right into his face and looming over him, and Jesus, Sam is _tall_.

Dean gets a hand between them, places it on Sam's chest, shoves him backwards. "Get outta my space, Sam."

"What? You afraid I might do something to you?" taunts Sam and he crowds up against Dean again, pushes him up against the side of the car, pinning him there. "Don't be afraid of me, Dean. This is just me, Sammy, your little brother. You know me, you know me really fuckin’ well.”

Ross feels his mouth go dry; he can't see Dean's face from this angle, just the back of his head and the dark, burning look in Sam's eyes which, man, is really fucking scary. Dean and Sam are completely still, Sam's eyes boring into Dean, his hands locked on Dean's shoulders where he's pressing him up against the car, both of them breathing loudly in the ominous silence. Ross feels frozen in time for a second, then he moves, rounds the car and yanks on Sam's arm, pulling him away from Dean.

"What the fuck d'you think you're doing?" he yells.

Sam starts at the contact, spins around and stares at Ross in surprise, shocked that he's even there, shocked that there's anyone alive in the entire world except him and Dean. "Ross?"

"Yeah. You forget I was even here?"

"Like I could do that," sneers Sam. "You're always fucking here."

"Fuck you!"

Sam pulls his arm out of Ross's grasp and makes to move away, but Dean's too fast: hand shooting out and grabbing him, pulling him back towards him. "Sammy."

" _What_? What now, Dean?"

Dean looks up and glances at Ross as if gauging his reaction from something. He looks nervous; he licks his lips and looks back at Sam, staring at his bent head and stupid hair.

"Look, this… it doesn't mean anything. Cassie - it was over, a long time ago. I never should've told her back then; I know that, I don't know what I was thinking. It wasn’t, she wasn’t… Well, anyway, whatever, doesn’t matter now. I'm only going to help cause she needs our help and that's what we do, right? We help people, we save people and we don't judge who those people are, unless they're really fucking nasty and she's not that." He pauses and looks at both of them again. "Got it?"

Ross nods, Sam doesn't say anything but pulls his arm out of Dean's grasp and gets into the car.

 

 

It's no better when they get to Missouri. Apparently, Cassie's father died three days ago - the reason that they're even there - except you can't fucking tell from the way she's acting. She’s like freaking Lisa Simpson on a crusade against racism, all _oh yeah, it sucks that my dad died, like, three days ago, but hey, look at the way this sweater makes my breasts look all perky, Dean, you big strong guy, who wasn't good enough for me before, but now that my Dad's dead and I'm stuck in my (literally) dead end home town, I need your help, and I'm gonna shove my tits in your face and be all intrepid girl reporter, just so’s you'll wanna sleep with me again._

Yeah, Ross isn't bitter. He just wants Dean to catch a fucking clue, because this isn't real, she doesn't want Dean, not his Dean, she barely knows him, she doesn’t fucking _deserve_ to know him, not after the number she did on him last time. To her, he's just some hot, mysterious guy she saw for all of two fucking weeks: dangerous and cool and possibly psychotic. Except, oh yeah, he isn’t psychotic at all, because it turns out the reason she kicked his ass to the curb in the first place wasn’t a lie and it got her father killed, and ain't karma a bitch, sweetheart.

Sam nods at her with gritted teeth when Dean introduces them, staying around the other side of the car, as if he has to keep some distance between them, as if he’s trying to forcibly restrain himself, and if Ross was any happier about the entire situation, he'd find Sammy's jealous bitch routine pretty damn funny. Sam can barely stand to look at Cassie, seething every time her hand goes out to land on Dean's arm or Dean's eyes follow her around the room.

"Dude, chill out, wouldya?" Ross whispers to him when Cassie leads them into her house. Sam totally ignores him, lips pursed together and disapproval radiating from every pore.

She serves them tea, and it's gotta be about the most disgusting thing he's ever tasted in his life, and man, he knows from disgusting. He spits it out into the saucer when she's not looking, except Sam catches him and snorts under his breath, trying not to laugh out loud. Dean glares at them both, so Ross sticks his tongue out at him, it's not like Dean's drinking the gross tea either.

At least, the killer racist truck is pretty fun. And if he's gotta suffer through watching Cassie and Dean make eyes at each other and Sam vibrate with jealousy, then at least he gets a kinda fun hunt out of it. They've never dealt with anything like it before, and he wants to call Dad and tell him about it, hear Dad's disbelief and joke with him about how fucked up the entire thing is, but it's hard to have a two-sided conversation with voicemail, so he doesn't bother.

He tries to talk to Sam about the hunt, taking the journal from Dean's duffle when he goes off to spend what Ross hopes is his last night ever with Cassie, writing up the shit that they've already discovered. Sam's not even bothering to pretend that he’s reading or watching TV or whatever he does to pass the time; he’s just sitting on his bed and scowling. If Ross blinks then he could be back in time, four or five years ago, just after a Dad and Sammy fight, Dean off somewhere making himself scarce and Sam sitting and scowling on his bed, rebuffing all Ross's attempts at conversation.

It feels weird to be the one updating Dad's journal. Before Dad went missing, he and Dean rarely even got to glimpse at it, it was Dad’s freaking bible, and only he got to use it, all sacred and special. Since Dad's been gone, Dean's kinda taken over, probably just assuming it was his duty, being the oldest and all that, and it's not like Ross is especially clamoring to write all this shit down, he sucks at details and every teacher he ever had bitched about his penmanship. Well, it's tough shit now because Dean ain't here, too busy banging Reporter Barbie, and Sam's too busy sulking, so hey, they can both suck it up.

"Do you think Dean would wanna stick around?" he asks. Sam scowls harder and says nothing; it would almost be funny, teasing Sam like this, except he's kinda worried that Dean might wanna stick around after all. "Naw, he won't do that."

"Why not? He might," interrupts Sam darkly. "If he's really into this girl. And he must've been into her before to tell her about the job."

Ross shrugs. "Yeah, maybe."

Sam seems to bristle even more, if it’s possible, and Ross feels momentarily sorry for him. Sam’s always been a possessive bastard, hell, that’s one of the many reasons the two of them have always had such a goddamned difficult relationship. And then there’s the whole part where Sam loves Dean in _that_ way, that perverted, fucked-up way that meant that Sam was always going to have Dean in ways that Ross never was and that Sam was always going to be first.

He feels a rush of anger, dark and bitter in his mouth as he sips at his beer, staring across the room at Sam, who’s sitting there, fucking _moping_ , eyebrows drawn together, heavy forehead under the sheet of hair.

Sammy can’t share, that’s always been his problem.

He puts his beer back on the nightstand and says coolly, “I think Dean was lonely.”

Sam flinches and looks up at him with wide, startled eyes. “What? But you were with him."

Oh yeah, he was with him, he knows that. But he’s not Sam, not fucking Sammy, not what Dean really wanted. All those months when Sam was gone and Dean would be Dean, but then he’d get that look on his face and Ross would know… he’d know that Dean was thinking about Sam, and there was nothing, _nothing_ he could do or say to make it better. Dean would get that face on, that devastated, heart-broken face, which made something throb in Ross's chest like a physical pain.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t the same.”

"Bullshit!" snorts Sam, but he looks shaken by the idea.

"No," says Ross, “you’re wrong. It wasn’t the same as when it was you and Dad and all of us together, like a proper family. Dean really missed that."

He wants Sam to know, he wants Sam to know how much he hurt Dean, cause Ross hurt, knowing that he couldn't fill in all the gaps for Dean, that he wasn’t that person. But he also wants Sam to _know_ , for Sam to realize what he did when he abandoned them. Sam was a Winchester, still is a Winchester, he was born into this family just like Dean, (not like Ross – cause he was only half a Winchester, he was the interloper), but Sam had the birthright and he didn’t care, he threw it away anyway. He was a Winchester and he was part of their family and he didn’t care.

Sam's gone all white; blinking as if he's about to start crying, his kicked puppy look, and Ross suddenly feels uncomfortable. Sam deserves this, he reminds himself, Sam deserves to feel devastated and thrown aside, because he did it to them, he forgot about them, he gave himself this perfect life, where he and Dean didn't matter, where -

“Dean missed…” Sam starts to say, interrupting his train of thought.

But Ross isn't having that, Sam has to _know,_ has to get that he can't have it both ways, can't have Dean and also have Stanford and Jessica and law school and all that crap that he got for himself.

"He missed you a lot, man," he says forcefully, cutting off Sam mid-flow. "He missed you, like, a stupid amount. And he tried not to show it, you know how he is, always tryin' to show like he doesn't give a shit, but I could see that he wasn't okay, he missed you. Hell, even I missed you on occasion. You were one of us and then you just left us.”

“But it wasn’t, it wasn’t you or Dean. It was Dad, it was –“

“Whatever,” shrugs Ross. "You think Dean cared about that? You think that made him miss you any less?"

"But I! Ross, it wasn't - it wasn't about Dean, or you, man, it was, it was -" Sam breaks off, voice cracking, and Ross has to look up now, has to see what his words have caused.

Shit, he immediately feels bad, cause Sam's shoulders are shaking, head bowed. Jesus, Sam _is_ fucking crying. Again. Great. He made Sammy cry. Again. And he was trying to make him feel bad, was trying to get him to see, but he didn't want this, this goddamn responsible, guilty feeling...

"It was Dad. You know it was Dad," murmurs Sam, "he was the one who told me to stay gone. It wasn't - wasn't Dean..."

He presses his lips together, stares blankly at the screen. He wants out of this conversation now, doesn't want to see Sam like this, this broken up. Save for that one time in Palo Alto, he hasn't seen Sam cry for years. He knows that Sam cried while Dean was sick, when they thought Dean was gonna die, hell, he heard him, that night when both Sam and Dean thought he was asleep, but Sam hasn't cried this openly in front of him since his girl's funeral. Sam's been blank-faced, red-eyed and stoic since then. Like Dad, he thinks immediately. He can remember how it was between Dad and Sam, always like they were on the edge of a fucking cliff, taunting each other with the big drop on the other side, both of them refusing to take the first jump.

"They're too fuckin' similiar," Dean said one night when he'd been really, really drunk, "Sammy and Dad, they're too much alike."

He thought bullshit at the time, no way is Sammy like Dad, no fucking way. But he can see now, older and wiser and all that, he can see that Dean was kinda right, had a point. But he never got Sam, still doesn't get it. Why did Sam leave? Why did Sam hate the job so much? It was what they did: they did good, what they did mattered, they saved people, they destroyed evil. And he wanted to give all that up to become a fucking lawyer? Give up his family? Give up _Dean?_

He sighs, takes another pull on his beer, glances back towards Sam. Sam seems to have gotten himself more under control, passing one hand over his face, legs bent awkwardly under him.

"I don't even know anymore," Sam says bitterly, and that makes something in Ross’s brain buzz because now he really sounds like Dad, too fucking much like Dad. "All that time, at Stanford. I missed you guys. Hell, I even missed your annoying ass; you know," he breaks off to look up at him and give him a watery smile and Ross feels a harsh stab of guilt. “Yeah. The one good thing, Jess - well, she's dead now, anyway, and I'm back here with you guys doing exactly what I used to hate doing. So what was the fucking point?"

He coughs, looks away. “Jesus, dude, lighten up.”

“My girlfriend died, Ross,” Sam grits out, “she fucking _died_. You don’t – you have no fuckin’ idea!”

That stab of guilt sharpens and Ross clenches his fingers around the beer bottle, drains the rest of it.

“You and Dean – you’ve never lost anyone like that, anyone close to you,” Sam continues.

“Yeah well, Dad could be dead, so you never know – Dean and I might be able to join your special club, after all.”

Sam shakes his head and gives him a disbelieving look. “You’re fucking unbelievable, you know?”

“I like to think so.”

There’s a moment of loaded silence, and for a second, Ross thinks that Sam’s going to punch him, and he’s silently bracing himself for it, readying himself for a full-on, proper fist fight because fuck knows he wants to do _something_ , anything to break this horrible-ass atmosphere. Then there’s a sound from Sam, a sort of ugly, snorting, laughing sound, and he looks across to see Sam staring at him and shaking his head.

“ _Christ_ , you know, you haven’t changed. You haven’t changed a fucking bit.”

“Yeah, well, neither have you.”

Sam looks sober at that and he sighs, big ole martyred Sam sigh. “Yeah, you’re probably right. It’s weird, cause everything… it’s like I never even went to Stanford. Everything here with you and me and with… me and Dean, it’s exactly the same –“ he breaks off, worrying his lip between his teeth, looking conflicted.

Ross’s stomach rolls over, tight flood of heat and ( _everything here with… me and Dean, it’s exactly the same_ …) heart speeding up, rush of _no, not again, no, not that_ … in his head.

(…everything here with… me and Dean, it’s exactly the same…)

Exactly the same.

 


	8. Chapter 8

No one says anything as they leave Cape Giradeau behind, but Ross can practically feel the resentment bleeding off of Sam as the two of them watch Dean kiss Cassie goodbye. The kiss looks tame to him, more of a friends or old acquaintances sort of a deal than a hot, humping see you never. Ross knows a good kiss when he sees one and this ain't it. In fact, watching the two of them like this - no freaking tongue for fuck's sake - he gets to thinking that maybe Dean wasn’t getting horizontal with her at all last night, which begs the question: what the fuck _was_ Dean doing with her last night? Talking? Un-fucking-likely. Playing chess? Ha! But Dean seems weirdly off with her, obviously eager to get away while she’s the one keeping him with questions and held-tilts and tinkling laughs that sound like nails on a chalkboard.

But Sam’s too busy getting off on the drama of it all to see Dean’s obvious reluctance, all pissy and hurt, and so fucking jealous it’s actually not even funny anymore. Especially when it’s three hundred miles later and he’s still brooding in the back seat like some sulky teenager playing hard to get, staring out the window and ignoring all their attempts to include him in the conversation.

When they finally stop for the night, Ross doesn’t ask before he lifts the car keys from Dean’s pocket and heads off to the nearest bar. Dean will be pissed – taking the car without asking and all that bullshit – but fuck, it’s the family car, not just Dean’s. Okay, so Dad technically gave it to Dean all those years ago, but whatever, they only have the one fucking car between the three of them, it’s not like he has a choice. He’s grinding his teeth before he even notices it, irritated by yet another painful day in the car on their never-ending road trip of brotherly angst. He’s so sick of his brothers, that right now, he’d happily take off for a mini vacation on his own, leaving the two of them to their own fucked-up issues and their own fucked-up obsession with each other.

Before, he kinda had the idea at the back of his mind that he wouldn’t let them get into this shit again, he’d make himself a constant, cock-blocking presence. But now, he finds it hard to even care, and right now – at this exact moment – he feels too suffocated, too claustrophobic and just too fucking dead-eyed to even give a shit. Because he knows… he can feel it, whatever it is between Dean and Sam, it's about to start again, if it hasn’t already, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Oh, maybe, he could plead with Dean, tell him that he knows, tell him how he feels about it, but in the end, it wouldn’t stop them. Dean might give it his best college try because Dean loves him and Dean is the king of guilt and sacrifice, but he’d fail, because Dean loves Sam more.

Sam’s gonna win because he always wins. He comes first for Dean and he always has. Even for those years when Sam wasn’t even there, he was still winning. Dean could never hide anything from Ross, and his feelings for Sam were far too epic to ever slide under anyone’s radar, especially someone who knows him like Ross does. Ross is too used to being beaten by Sam to really give a shit. He may as well just let them dig their own fucking graves, because he just doesn’t care anymore.

He sits in the bar and drinks and thinks about what they’re probably doing right now. They’ll have realized that he’s gone by now, car missing and all that, so they’re probably taking advantage already. Will Sam have Dean backed up against that crazy wallpapered wall? Or maybe bent over the stained couch? Or the flimsy Formica table? Or will it be Dean bending Sammy over something? Or on his knees to worship Sam’s big cock?

He huffs out a humorless breath, the combo of acid and bile and beer harsh and burning in his throat. He signals for the bartender, this time pointing to the bottle of JD behind the counter. The guy snorts and gives him an unimpressed look.

“I.D?”

Ross sneers at him and tosses one of his fakes onto the bar between them. The guy picks it up and spends far too long staring at it, eyes narrowing in on Ross in an unfriendly grimace.

“Now can I have that drink?” he snaps.

The guy grunts and pours it for him, taking the money from him with a glare.

Ross scowls and fingers his phone in his pocket. He could call Dad. Right now. He could call him up and leave him a message. He could tell him the truth: _Dad, you’d never guess what? You’d never guess what your two boys are doing right now? Dean and Sam, yeah, do you remember them? Do you remember any of us? Well, they’re fucking each other right now. Oh yeah, fucking each other, having sex, making the beast with two backs, you know, you remember how it goes? Like that time you knocked up that chick in Texas – yeah, my mom, remember that, Dad? Remember me, Dad? Your son? Ross? Yeah, well, you know what the really fucking funny thing is? You know what’s really so goddamn hilarious? They’ve been doing it for years, Dad. Yeah, six fucking years. Since Sammy was sixteen, maybe even before then. And you didn’t know, you never knew a fucking thing. Or perhaps you did, perhaps you suspected. I always thought that – that you suspected. But you never said anything. Why didn’t you say anything, Dad? Don’t you give a fuck? Don’t you care about us anymore?_

But Dad won’t answer. Dad probably won’t even hear the message. It’ll sit in his voicemail box for a month, or however long unheard messages sit there, and then it’ll get deleted.

Ross waves to the bartender for another drink, and this time, after the guy’s grudgingly filled him up, he twists in his seat to face the crowd. It’s a young crowd. College students, he thinks with a sneer, probably even younger. He didn’t notice that before, too busy sitting and brooding, but Jesus, he’s not fucking _Sam_ , he’s Ross Winchester. When Ross Winchester is pissed, Ross Winchester gets laid.

Her name is Rebecca, and she’s a high school junior, but for once, he doesn’t give a shit. He can hear Dean’s voice in his head, warnings about jailbait and statutory rape, but what the fuck ever, if Dean can fuck his younger brother then Ross can damn well fuck a high school junior, at least they’re not fucking related. They go back to her house, it’s huge, with a goddamn water feature on the front lawn, white marble statues and hedge sculptures, like something outta the freaking Overlook Hotel. She makes him park the Impala half way down the street, looking way out of place in this road of Mazaratis and Porsches. She lets him in around the back, giggling and holding her hand over her mouth, making him tiptoe up the back stairs so as not to wake her parents or little sister. It’s pretty weird, but also kinda hot.

The next morning, he watches her get ready for school, slinging books and pencils into a bag, holding up different pairs of designer jeans against her body, asking him: “This one? Or what about this one?” like he’s her freaking BFF, and not just some random dude she hooked up with the night before.

She lets him out the back again when her parents have left for work so the neighbors can’t see, suggesting that they friend each other on Facebook. When he tells her he isn’t on Facebook, she looks genuinely shocked. _Oh my God, no way. But, like, everyone’s on Facebook! How are my friends gonna know how hot you are, if I can’t link to you on Facebook?_ She looks confused and it’s flattering – hey, she thinks he’s hot - so he lets her take a picture of him with her camera phone.

When he gets back to the motel, Dean and Sam are out. He picks the lock on their room and pushes aside the pile of dirty laundry by the entrance to get it fully open. It’s more disgusting than usual, wet towels, burger wrappings, pizza boxes, empty bottles of Rolling Rock, and it smells worse. He searches for a note and finally finds one tacked to the back of the bathroom door, wilted and ink runny.

_Ross, you little shit, if you’ve hurt my baby then you are DEAD!!! I’M NOT FUCKING KIDDING. We’re at the diner across the street._

He rolls his eyes and crumples up the note, slamming the door closed behind him. It takes practically five minutes to cross the fucking highway, it’s stupidly busy at this time of day. He crosses the diner parking lot, spotting Sam and Dean through the window in one of the fifties style window booths. He stops for a moment to watch them, they seem to be deep in conversation, Sam talking and gesturing with his giant hands, Dean with his fork half way to his mouth. They both look happy, Sam’s face lit up, his eyes shining as he talks and talks. Huh, so he’s obviously gotten over yesterday’s epic tantrum of jealousy and lameness.

Sam stops talking and smiles goofily, hand going out to cradle Dean’s face, thumb swiping at something on Dean’s lower lip. Ross feels his heart thud still. Dean’s got a look on his face which Ross has only seen a couple of times before, and both those times it was like this: Dean and Sam, just the two of them, Dean and Sam, Dean staring at Sam in that way that made him look… reverent, like he can’t quite believe it, as if Sam’s the only thing worth looking at in the entire fucking world. Sam removes his hand and says something, and Dean rolls his eyes and grins at Sam. He goes to swat Sam on the arm but Sam grabs his hand instead, bringing it to his mouth and kissing his fingertips, one by one, eyes locked all the time on Dean’s half open mouth.

Ross looks away, swallowing back the rise of bile in the back of his throat. He feels queasy, the too many shots from last night churning up with the beers and the… _God… that_ – what he just saw, Dean and Sam.

He knew it. He fucking _knew it._

He barely notices the traffic, the blaring of horns and screeching of brakes, as he runs back to the motel. He can’t get the lock to the room open this time, his hands are shaking too much or the pick’s fucked-up, or he doesn’t know what the fuck’s wrong with him, except he really kinda does and it’s _not his fucking fault!_ He gives up, kicks at the shitty, already dented wood in frustration, slides down against the brick wall onto the damp concrete. He brings his knees up to his chest and rests his head on his crossed arms, breathing in the smell of the beer soaked into his jeans.

“Y’alright there, son?”

He lifts his head, feeling another wave of nausea; some gnarled old dude is watching him. “What?” he snaps.

“I said. Are you alright?”

“Do I look like I’m fucking alright?”

The old dude takes a step back, arms out, all cool-it, cool-it. “Just askin’.”

“Yeah. Well, _don’t_.”

Ross sneers at him as he backs away, lowering his head back on his arms.

It’s about ten minutes later when he hears them crossing the lot towards him, the familiar rise and fall of their voices, Dean’s barked-out laugh and Sam’s deeper chuckle. They sound happy, content and easy, and he wants to get up and punch both of them in the face and wipe those cheery fucking grins away forever.

“Aww, look, it’s little orphan Annie,” says Dean.

Sam sniggers and kicks the sole of Ross’s boot. “Why aren’t you inside?”

“Fuck off! Your fuckin’ fuck-ass lock pick fucked-up on me! Motherfuckin’ piece of shit!”

“You sure you can’t get anymore fucks into that sentence, little bro?” asks Dean, unlocking the door.

“Fuck you!”

Dean just laughs which has got to be about the most annoying thing in the history of ever. Ross kicks the door shut behind him, pleased to see it shaking in the frame, fucking piece of shit cheap-ass motel. When he turns around Dean and Sam are facing him from across the room, both of them fresh-faced and scrubbed and radiating happiness and I-got-laid-good-last-night vibes from every fucking pore. For a moment, he can’t think straight, he’s so fucking _angry_.

He grits his teeth, takes a step forward, and hits Dean full in the face with the biggest and best punch he can manage.

Dean crumples to the ground, blood gushing from his nose. Ross’s fist is on fire, throbbing and aching where he caught Dean in the mouth, graze of Dean’s teeth against his knuckles. He cradles it against his chest, eyes locked on Dean where he’s laying frozen and unresponsive, head upturned towards him, mouth red with blood and eyes wet and dumb.

 _“You… fucking… son of a bitch_!” Ross chokes out. He strikes out with his foot, but Sam’s too fast for him, blocking and tripping him with one of his stupid long legs, crashing him to the floor.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” snarls out Sam, and it’s weird how Sam’s voice sounds to him: so much like his own voice that for a minute, he’s not sure who just said that.

“Sammy, don’t,” says Dean, and his voice is thick, coughing and spitting blood onto the carpet between them.

“But he punched you, Dean! He fucking punched you! What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?”

Sam sounds hysterical. Ross swallows back more rising bile, gagging on it, acid and burning in his throat. Dean’s still staring at him, cradling his busted face. _Not so pretty anymore_ , Ross thinks viciously.

“Ross?” croaks Dean.

Ross cries out and launches himself again, fucking _jumping_ on Dean, both of them rolling against piles of dirty laundry and beer bottles. Dean’s underneath him like a thousand other practice sparring sessions, but deadly still, not fighting back. He presses Dean into the floor, covering him from head to foot with his entire body, and he wonders bleakly if this is how it feels for Sam, if it feels this exhilarating and this awful to dominate Dean like this. He’s never had the upper hand over Dean before, Dean’s his older brother, bigger and wiser and always in charge, bossy and sure and always knowing what to do. The one who always looked out for him, the one he looked up to, the one he admired. And even though he knew and Dean and Sam, it didn’t matter because Dean was still his big brother and Dean was still the only person in his entire life that he's ever been able to truly count on.

He presses his hands into Dean’s shoulders, grinding him down into the dirty carpet, fingers digging into Dean’s shoulder blades, hurting and grinding against the muscle and bone, trying to push him into it, let the carpet swallow him up, but still unwilling to let go, not willing to let go of the one thing he’s always had. Dean’s struggling for breath, heaving and spluttering through his busted nose and lips, but he’s still not moving, because he’s guilty, so utterly, overwhelmingly guilty and he’s letting Ross hurt him because this is what he thinks he deserves, the stupid fucked-up masochist.

Ross pulls back, worn out and sickened, blinded by the useless, hot tears in his eyes and the guilty, frozen look on Dean’s face. He rolls onto his side and curls up, cradling his aching hand to his chest. Dean says something to Sam, choking it out, but Ross can’t hear him, the blood is thumping too loudly in his brain and he’s burning up from inside. His head’s foggy and his throat is raw, aching like a five mile run on an ice cold day.

Dean shifts and gets an arm around him, pulling him back against his body as he groans in pain. Ross freezes in shock. Dean’s… Dean’s fucking _hugging_ him, as if everything isn’t fucked up enough. He punches him in the face and Dean hugs him? He already knew his brother was a mess, because Dean fucks Sam and loves Sam like a brother and a lover, and he sucks Sam’s cock, and... what is wrong with him, what is wrong with both of them? Is his family really that screwed in the head? They’re different, but they have a code, they’re hunters, the good guys, not the redneck Deliverance guys. Except Dean and Sam are his brothers and they had sex last night.

He feels someone’s hand on his shoulder, helping him sit up. He stares up into his oldest brother's pale, blood-streaked face, his big stupid Bambi eyes with their stupid long eyelashes, _like a fucking girl_ , like a pathetic homo who takes it up the ass from his little brother.

“Ross, what is it? Tell me. What's wrong?”

Guilty, you're so fucking guilty, Dean. You fucking _know_ what's wrong.

Ross looks over Dean’s shoulder at Sam, crouching just behind Dean, concern and wariness blazing across his face, turning his eyes into animal like slants, just like his own.

They know, they both know. This is it. This is the moment.

“You two had sex last night,” he says finally, his voice cracked, faint. All those years, all those times he’s imagined this moment, and he’s never thought of it going down like this.

He immediately wants to take it back.

Dean’s face crumbles, about as much as it can with the bloody nose and swollen mouth. He looks desperate, pupils blown and terrified.

Sam leans forward, places a hand on Dean’s shoulder and Dean flinches. Sam ignores him, eyes boring steadily into Ross, “You know about us. How long have you known about us?”

Ross shrugs, swipes one hand across his face, pushing away the sticky, damp tears. He’s got no barriers now, no more secrets, nothing else.

“A long time,” he says.

“Oh my God,” whispers Sam, and Ross sees his fingers tighten their hold on Dean. “Since when?”

“Since Dean’s 21st birthday. I saw you. You thought I’d passed out.”

“Six years? That was six fucking years ago!”

“Yeah.” 

Everything goes silent. Ross can hear them all breathing, Dean labored and painful, Sammy sharp and hurried, and himself, panting, heart still racing.

“Does Dad… Did Dad know?” mumbles Dean.

Ross shakes his head. “I never told him. I think he suspected.”

“Oh God,” says Dean, his voice cracking, and Ross can see the color drain from his face, smears of blood stark like fluorescent marks against his pale skin. He pushes Sam away, gets to his feet slowly, weaves towards the bathroom, stumbling like an old man. Ross watches him blankly, sees the door half-close, hears the sound of Dean coughing, spitting and retching, probably vomit, maybe blood.

“Dean, you okay?” Sam jumps up, following after Dean, and Ross slumps back against the metal bed frame. He feels done in, exhausted and run out, ridden hard but not yet put away wet.

Dean emerges from the bathroom, white faced and unsteady, most of the blood cleaned away except for one fingerprint shaped smear on his chin. He dips down in front of Ross and takes his head between his hands, cradling his skull.

“I’m sorry, kiddo.” His voice is hoarse and so fucking genuine. Dean’s devastated like Ross has never seen him look before and it’s wrenching at his heart. “I’m so sorry,” Dean pleads. Ross tries to snort but it’s more like a sob, and he can’t look away from Dean, from the desolation on his face. “If you want us to, then we can never-–“

“Dean!” Sam cries out, sounding panicked.

“Ross, I mean it, we can." Dean chokes over the words, there are tears sliding down his face and it’s breaking Ross into bits. He’s being scattered, everything’s falling apart. Everything’s got to change now, because he’s told them that he knows, because they know that he knows. Nothing is going to be the same anymore.

“No, you can’t,” he says flatly and he stares at Dean, at his face, at the bruises that he put there, the damage that he’s done.

Dean opens his mouth to deny it, but he doesn’t get the chance to speak, Ross is kissing him before he can really process what’s happening, something coming loose in his brain, some piece unhitching and making him momentarily insane. Someone’s making a strangled sound and he’s not sure if it’s Sammy or Dean, or even himself. But Dean’s mouth is under his, busted lip and the mingled taste of blood and bile and saliva. Dean’s tongue brushes against his, and he can’t believe that Dean’s letting him do this, letting him explore his mouth with his tongue, letting him push into him and take parts of him that only Sam’s been allowed before. And it’s doing weird things to him, it’s making him feel crazy, fucked-up things that are fluttering and itching at his skin, but this – for Dean – it’s just part of his big punishment, and the fact that it’s not that for Ross, is terrifying.

He pulls away and gasps for breath. Dean’s pupils are blurred and he’s breathing heavily, panting hotly against the side of Ross’s face. Ross laughs out loud. He feels high, on the edge of hysteria, his stomach seems to have floated away, bottomed out from all the crazy and the tingling, terrible feelings in his gut.

“I don’t get it,” he says, willing his voice not to shake.

“Get what?” And that’s definitely Sammy’s voice, looming over Dean, suspicious and angry. “What the fuck are you doing, Ross?”

“Me? I just wanted to see what it was like,” he spits back.

"Stop playing games! Stop screwing with us!” growls Sam.

“Cause you’re only fuckin’ allowed to screw with each other, right?”

Sam’s eyes narrow and he pushes Ross away from Dean, hand fisting into his overshirt, sinewy muscle flexing. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but you don’t get to do that,” says Sam, and his voice is like steel.

“Jesus!” cries Dean. “Sam! Stop it!”

“Dean,” warns Sam, “stay out of this.”

“What? For Christ’s sake, Sammy, what the fuck are you gonna do? You gonna fight him? You gonna fight your little brother?”

“He kissed you.”

“You kissed me last night. And this morning.”

“But – he’s your brother – Dean."

Dean barks out a laugh, cold like ice breaking. “Sam! Sammy! Can you hear yourself?”

“He _hit_ you, Dean!”

“Yeah, and you shot me full of rock salt.”

Ha! Ross narrows his eyes in on Sam and sees him flinch at Dean’s words, his fingers momentarily weakening their hold on Ross’s shirt. Ross takes advantage of it to tug away from him, pushing Sam’s fist away with his hand.

“This – we can’t. Dean, you and Ross, you can’t do this,” Sam says, and he’s focused all on Dean now, expression pleading and lost.

“He’s not your fuckin’ _property_!” spits Ross.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” mutters Dean. He turns to Sam, cradles Sam's cheek, sliding his thumb over Sam’s mouth. “Sammy, we can’t do this anymore. Not now. He _knows_.”

“He’s known for years. He said so!”

Dean swallows and shakes his head, the words slurring through his busted mouth. “No, Sam, you’re not listening to me. We have to stop.”

Sam places his own hand over Dean’s, closing his eyes for a second. “ _No_.”

“Sam," and that’s Dean’s warning tone, his older brother tone.

“I said no, Dean!” Sam’s eyes jerk open and they’re flashing, dark and angry, “Just – you don’t get to do this to me! Please.”

Dean blinks and drops his hand. He stumbles to his feet and stomps away, door smashing shut behind him.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Dean can still remember that morning, three days before Christmas, a month before his twelfth birthday, waking up to Sam’s scream to see another boy who looked so much like Sammy did two years ago, but with none of Sam’s babyish softness, staring back at the two of them with big brown eyes.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

The boy didn’t move or speak. Dean felt Sam creep up beside him, grab onto his t-shirt with one small fist, the two of them turning to stare at the strange kid.

“Huh? Can’t you speak?” he demanded.

The kid blushed and his eyes flashed angrily. “Yes, course I can speak.”

“Well, answer me then, what’s your name, kid?”

The boy scowled and said, “My name is Ross Christopher Winchester.”

Sam gasped and turned his head to whisper directly into Dean’s ear, “Dean, did you hear what he said?”

Dean grunted and elbowed him away. “Shut up, Sammy.” He stared at the boy, glancing between him and Sam and Dad where he was still passed out on the couch, and had this weird feeling.

He swallowed resolutely and turned back to the boy, making his voice sound gentler. “How did you get here?”

“My dad brought me.”

“Where’s your dad now?”

“There,” said the boy and pointed towards Dad on the couch. “He’s my dad.”

“No he’s not!” protested Sam. “He’s _our_ Dad.”

They were silent for a moment, the boy still looking at them steadily, scratching the side of his face with his small hand. “I’m hungry. Do you have anything to eat?”

They all ate together, Dad still asleep and snoring. Dean poured bowls of Cheerios for Ross and Sammy, watching them both as they ate. Like mirror images, but distorted, wonky mirror images, he thought. The way their noses and mouths screwed up when they took in too big mouthfuls of cereal, the suspicious look in their eyes as they stared each other out over their glasses of milk, all of it was identical and… freaking weird.

Dad woke up after they’d all gotten dressed. Dean had found comics for them to read, and Sam was on his front on Dean’s bed, staring at Ross, looking small but defiant on the other bed. Sam nudged Dean with his elbow and whispered loudly, “He’s not staying, is he?”

“Jesus, I don’t know. Shut the hell up!”

“Shut the hell up yourself!” retorted Sam, turning to stick his tongue out at Dean.

“Boys!” called out Dad in his gruff-just-woken-up voice.

“Yes, sir!” They climbed off the bed quickly, standing together, backs straight and heads up, eyes locked on their father. Ross glanced at them and clumsily followed suit, scrabbling untidily off the bed and moving to stand on Dean’s other side.

Dad stared at them, looking confused for a second before he relaxed and smiled, running a hand over his beard. “Ross, come here,” he said.

Dean watched his father crouch down and pull the boy into a hug when he approached. When Dad turned back to Sam and Dean, he was holding Ross against him, one arm on his small shoulders, Ross’s face pressed against his hip.

“Dean, Sammy, this is Ross. He is your brother.” Dad paused for a moment, tightening his hold on Ross’s shoulders, letting the words sink in. _Our brother_ , thought Dean, _we have another brother_. He was expecting it, looking at Ross, seeing how much he looked like Sammy, and the feeling he’d gotten when he’d first laid eyes on him, he’d known. Though, wait a minute, if Ross was our brother and he’s younger than Sam, then that must mean that Dad and some another chick must’ve…

“He’s going to be living with us from now on,” said Dad, interrupting Dean’s train of thought. “He’s a Winchester, he’s one of us. Do you understand what that means?”

Dean cleared his mind of all thoughts, concentrating only on his father’s voice. He nodded, glancing at Sam from the corner of his eye. He was staring at Dad and Ross with a suspicious look on his face, that small crease between his eyebrows which meant he was thinking about it, taking it in and trying to figure it out in that normal Sammy way of his.

Dad continued as if they’d both already answered, speaking directly to him. “Dean, Ross is your brother. You treat him exactly as you would Sammy. If I’m not around then you’re in charge and you look out for him. You’re the oldest, Dean, and you look out for _both_ your brothers. Do you hear me? I’m counting on you for this.”

He swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir, I understand,” he said, trying to make his voice sound firm and sure, like Dad’s lieutenant, like the guy who now had two little brothers to look after.

Dad nodded, looking pleased, he smiled at Dean, said, “Good. Now – all of you - get your stuff together. We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”

After a while, Dean forgot what it was like before Ross became one of them, how it was before with just him and Sam. But Sam never forgot. Dean could feel it in every accusatory look he’d throw Ross, every fight and spat out word, every resentment and petty argument between them.

And the balance never worked: DeanSammyRoss, SammyRossDean, RossDeanSammy, no matter how much they tried. Dean was always the one in the middle, fights and arguments and bruises and dead arms and never any fucking _amnesty_ in Sam and Ross’s never-ending backseat war. It wore Dad out, made him gruffer and harder and even spikier than normal.

Dean can remember one occasion when he thought Dad would lose it completely: pulling the car up at the side of the road, Dad jumping out, yanking the back door open and hauling the two of them out, one after the other. Dad threw them to the ground by the side of the road, as if they were sandbags, not boys, screaming at them, the freezing cold wind snatching his words so Dean could only see the fury and rage etched into his father’s face, gone dark and almost unrecognizable, like one of the creatures they hunted.

He felt more than saw his Dad’s fingers as they caught in his brothers’ hair, pulling their heads back to look up at him, his mouth shaping horrible, angry words as they whimpered and shook. He ripped their thin worn t-shirts as he grabbed them by their necks and threw them against the side of the car. Inside Dean felt it buffer from the weight of his brothers’ small bodies and heard a snatch of his father’s voice, “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t leave you both here!”

He saw the shocked, blubbery looks of terror on both their faces – that look that on Sam would later twist into a cold, hate-filled fury - but then, at that moment, was just childish terror of Dad. Something clenched up hard inside Dean, and before he realized what he was doing, he was out the car, defying Dad but too scared, truly terrified because Dad would do that, Dad would totally follow through on that threat if he thought it would teach them a lesson.

“Dad?”

“Stay out of this, Dean. Get back in the car!”

“Dad – please, you can’t."

“ _Dean_! Get into the car!”

Dean glanced at his brothers, both crying. Big, fat tears rolling down their round cheeks, shivering pathetically in the icy wind in their ripped t-shirts.

“No, Dad. You can’t leave them here.”

“Are you telling me what to do, Dean?”

“No, no, sir. I wouldn’t do that. But you can’t leave them. Please, Dad.”

It was like walking into a pitch black haunted room without a flashlight, no gun, no back-up, no Dad. He was on his own, casting himself out there, going against his father.

They got back in the car, Dad dismissing him with a look that cut into Dean’s chest like his best silver knife and a barked out, “Dean! You’re in the back with Ross. Sam! Up front with me!” Not even looking him in the face, no admiration for standing up to him, for standing up for his brothers, but disappointment and cold hard anger.

Dean swallowed, his own eyes as downcast as Sam’s and Ross’s, that look of disappointment from Dad twisting and wriggling into him, like a maggot in rotting flesh. He nodded and slid into the backseat after Ross, not daring to raise his eyes, instead staring transfixed at the small pinpricks of gooseflesh running up and down the length of Ross’s arms, the mini ripples and shivers under his skin as the car’s warm air hit him.

He only dared look up when he could sense Dad’s attention elsewhere, on the road, swerving back onto the blacktop with a roar of the engine. He looked up cautiously and saw Sam, twisted around in the front seat, looking back at him, giving Dean that clear-eyed, blazing look that meant gratitude and love and never-ending devotion.

Dean felt something in his chest pull, something begin to warm him up again. He gulped, stared back at Sam, unable to look away from _that_ look.

“Sam! Put your damn seatbelt on!”

Dad’s voice jolted them back to the present. Sam’s head snapped back to the front and he fumbled with his belt, the back of his neck flushing red with embarrassment.

Dean turned to look out the window; feeling out of place in the unfamiliar backseat. He felt Ross shift around, edge closer to him, burrow his messy, dark head into Dean’s chest, eyes falling shut as he faded into sleep. Dean rested his hand on the curve of Ross’s skinny shoulder, still cold from the icy wind outside, but familiar and comforting and soothing. He raised his eyes to the back of Dad’s head, immovable and dark in the front seat. He thought again of the look of disappointment on Dad’s face, of the look of adoration on Sam’s, and felt sick to his stomach with a cold, unknowable dread.

 

 

**

 

He wakes up to his phone vibrating against his ass, the muffled sounds of the opening riff of _Paranoid_ emanating from the back pocket of his jeans. He groans, fumbles around until he locates it. Naturally, by the time he manages to flip it open and bring it to his ear, it’s already gone to voicemail. He groans again, checks the caller ID; _SAM._ Of freaking course.

He shuffles into a sitting position, banging elbows and knees against the side of the car. He hates sleeping in the car, never feels like he’s had a rest after a night in the car. This time wasn’t as bad as usual, no Ross in the front seat, bitching about not getting the backseat.

He blinks tiredly, stares out the foggy back window, dawn is just creeping up, so it must be really fucking early. He checks his watch: 5.06am, Jesus.

Thoughts of Sam immediately slam his brain back to life, memories of yesterday, of what went down yesterday, Sammy… the two of them together all night because Ross had taken his baby for one of his pleasure cruises, “He won’t be back for hours,” he told Sam confidently, “we got all night, man.”

Sam’s look, wary and belligerent. “Whatever, Dean.” It made him kinda want to laugh, remembering all of a sudden Sam’s jealousy towards Cassie, the antagonism he could feel like a tangible presence in the car with them the past four hundred miles.

“Sam, Jesus, give it up already,” he cajoled him. “I didn’t sleep with her, if that’s what you want to know.”

The look on Sam’s face shifted immediately, that edge of suspicion melting away. He licked his lips, asked, “Yeah? So – you, last night?”

“We hung out,” he said with a shrug. “I told her about some of the shit we’d been up to, she told me about what she’d been doing.” He paused, considering, “It was actually kinda boring.”

The corner of Sam’s mouth lifted, a weak, half-smile, at long-freaking-last. “Yeah? Really?”

Dean rolled his eyes, “Really. Fuck, dude, I’d forgotten what a possessive bitch you are.”

Sam looked like he was gonna retort, but he closed his mouth instead, obviously deciding it wasn’t worth it. Hell, they had a good few hours of alone-time, probably the whole night, knowing Ross. They should not spend it fighting with each other about old girlfriends he hadn’t given a moment's thought to since Sam had come back into his life.

Sam approached him, wrapped his arms around him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I, just. Dean, I know, I can be like that sometimes. Jess – she used to." He broke off, tried to pull away, ducking his head again to hide his expression which… no, Dean wasn’t having that. He reached out, caught Sam’s jaw in his hand, tilted his head up so their eyes could meet.

“Yeah?” he asked carefully, “What did she used to say?”

Sam huffed out a long breath, pulled out of Dean’s grasp, a small glimpse of a sheepish smile around his mouth. “She used to get so mad at me when I used to get jealous of her talking to other guys or hanging out with other guys. And yeah, I trusted her, but I guess – I’m just one of those people. I always thought it was just you – but." He flushed self-consciously. “I guess it wasn’t just you, I’m just a jealous sort of person.”

Dean felt a twinge in his chest, _so, not just me then,_ he thought, feeling his own sudden stab of jealousy. He swallowed it back, pasted on one of his best leers.

“Sam, whatever there was between me and Cassie, it’s old news. So, stop cutting a bitch over it, and let’s enjoy ourselves, huh?”

Sam looked up, catching his eye, that slow, spreading grin of his, so goddamn beautiful. The smile that’d taken Dean’s entire fucking soul and remade it in his own image, that look of adoration and devotion that hadn’t changed one bit from the twelve year old in the front of the Impala thanking him for standing up to Dad.

Sam coming up to him and pushing him back onto the bed, straddling him and looming over him, thick dark hair brushing against Dean’s skin as Sam explored his way across his collarbone, his chest and nipples, stomach and belly button, tonguing at the scattering of golden hairs leading down to his groin, bypassing his cock and balls cause Sammy was a goddamn tease, to nuzzle apart his thighs, suck and lick at his knees, and inner thighs.

“I want to worship every single inch of you,” breathed out warm air over Dean’s belly button, “God, Dean, I want it all… everything.”

And his own pathetic answer, “Okay, yes, anything, everything, you got it, take it.”

The morning after was just as perfect. Surging awake with Sam’s mouth on his cock, Sam’s tongue writing his name in saliva across his balls. Sam fucking him in the bathroom in front of the mirror, his hands gripping the edge of the chipped and stained sink, their faces together in the mirror, watching, seeing himself as he came, seeing Sam, that perfect, complete moment of falling apart. Sam fucking him on the floor of the bathroom because however they tried it they couldn’t fit in the tub at the same time, one foot jammed between the toilet and the edge of the bathtub, the other hoisted over Sam’s shoulder. Sam magnificent and so fucking huge as he pounded into him, sliding and slipping over the damp dirty tiles. Sam collapsing on top of him afterwards, knocking the breath from Dean’s chest as he laughed, exuberant and so fucking beautiful into Dean’s skin.

“I can’t believe it took you so long to let me do this to you. I can’t believe I waited this long to fuck you.”

And afterwards.

He still can’t think about that, can’t think about the look on Ross’s face, his baby brother, all those years, _six and a half years_. The thought of all that time, of every hour spent together with Ross knowing.

He can’t think about his life the same anymore, it’s all been distorted, every memory is different, not what it seemed.

That year after Sam graduated high school, that extra year he stuck around before Stanford. That year when Dad finally gave into Ross’s pleas to let him leave school, 'cause he was seventeen fuckin’ years old and he didn’t need any of that school bullshit no more. That year they were all free, crossing the country from end to end, all four of them, together. He and Sammy sharing a motel room, Dad and Ross in the othe. The nights of lying beside Sam and waking him up with his mouth on Sam’s gorgeous cock, of showering together, laughing and groaning in the shower stall, hands over each other’s mouths, because Dad and Ross were just next door and the walls were way too fucking thin…

That was the best year. The best time of his life. All four of them together, sitting around a diner booth. Dad going through the paper or his journal, he and Ross and Sammy trading kicks under the table, flicking sugar packets at each other, Ross’s junior horndog boasts about the waitresses provoking indulgent looks from Dad. Sam and Ross not even fighting so much. Sam chilled out and happy, and Dean, every time he glanced at Sam, every time he thought about how the four of them must look - like a real family - feeling this warmth in his chest, this stupid happiness that he should’ve known was never going to last.

 

 

The phone trills again. Dean starts, pushing away the memories, the rolling and rumbling of his mind. He presses the button to accept the call, holds the receiver to his ear.

“Sam?”

“ _Dean?_ ” Sam sounds relieved, pissed, but relieved. “Jesus Christ, Dean! Where the hell are you? You gotta – listen, we don’t have time to go over last night, you gotta come back here.”

A prickle of gooseflesh breaks out across his skin, small hairs on his nape rising. “Sammy? What’s happening? Is Ross okay?”

Sam swallows, doesn’t say anything for a second. When he speaks he sounds unsure, worried, “Dean, he had another vision. We both did. It was bad, Dean, really bad. Just – please. We need you.”

The door to the motel room is open when he gets back, Sam lingering by it, his face white and anxious. It creases up in relief when he spots Dean, then immediately his eyes narrow, that concerned line between his eyebrows.

“Dean? Your face."

“Oh!” he halts, a couple of feet from Sam, brings one hand up curiously to his face, touches his lip and winces. Shit, he’d forgotten about that. He’d fixed it up as best he could in the bathroom of a McDonalds, crawled into the backseat of the car and taken a couple of Vicodin to go off last night, numbing the ache and numbing his stupid, overactive brain. He’d forgotten about Ross’s punch to his face, the mouthful of blood, no teeth knocked out, thank God, he still has his pretty smile. He smiles awkwardly at Sam, it’s painful, a persistent throb starting up along his jaw line.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. Sam swallows, steps away from the door, going inside and Dean follows him. Ross is flat out on one of the beds, breathing heavily, a cold facecloth over his forehead like a 19th century maiden with a headache.

“We had a vision,” Sam says dully. He’s gone back to packing up their stuff, the bags lying open on the other bed. “A guy called Jim Miller from Saginaw in Michigan killed himself. We both saw him do it just like before. I did some research, called the Sheriff’s in Saginaw. We were too late, he was already dead. But, Dean, how it happened - every single detail was exactly as we both saw.”

Dean sinks to the bed by Ross. He’s sleeping so heavily that Dean knows he’s drugged. He looks up at Sam.

“You gave him something?”

Sam nods, “Yeah, some of those painkillers you had left over from the hospital.“

“The OxyContin? You gave him that?”

“I had to, Dean!” Sam snaps. “He was in so much pain! The usual stuff – even the Vicodin was doing nothing for him! And he was so tired, we didn’t sleep last night. And you weren’t here. You ran away from it, Dean. You left me to deal with the entire fuckin’ fallout! And not just that - the - these goddamn _visions_. So, don't you dare try to tell me what I should've done.”

Dean can’t answer Sam, can only take every accusation as what he deserves. He shouldn’t have left them; they’re his responsibility. He leans down over Ross, presses his lips to the side of his face. He feels a sharp, overwhelming rush of tenderness for him, an urge to scoop Ross into his arms, rock him against his chest like he used to do when he was six years old and woke up with bad dreams. He’s done everything wrong. He’s fucked up this boy beyond repair, nothing is going to be able to undo the damage he’s done to Ross, the damage he and Sammy have done in their selfish desire for each other.

Ross is more than his little brother, has always been so much more than that, just as Sam has been more than a brother. The three of them have always been a lot closer than normal brothers. Dean can see it all clearly now, if he and Sam are mom and dad, then Ross is their fucked-up teenage kid, and they’ve broken him. Ross has grown up, spent the last six years of his life knowing his two brothers were fucking each other. How can they even begin to understand what kind of damage that has done to him?

“Dean?” Sam says hesitatingly. Dean turns his head to look at him, he suddenly feels ridiculously tired, his face throbbing in time with his pulse. “You look awful, dude; maybe you should rest up before we go anywhere. He’ll be out for a while, anyway.”

Dean picks up the Vicodin lying on the nightstand and pops one dry. He slides gently onto the bed beside Ross, curling up against his brother’s sleeping body. Ross stirs, turns onto his side, as if he knows Dean’s there, though that’s gotta be impossible with the fucking drugs Sam's given him. Dean rolls into the space gratefully, holding his little brother from behind like the big spoon. He closes his eyes and falls asleep.

 

When Dean wakes up, Ross is still lying beside him, but he’s awake. He’s watching Dean sleep with this confused look on his face. Dean blinks his eyes open and slowly takes in Ross’s face, the absurd familiarity of it, the same face he’s seen for every single day of the past 21 years.

“Hey,” Dean murmurs, then, “I’m sorry.”

Ross’s mouth twitches, he looks even more confused. He lifts his hand, hesitates, then drops it again, says, “My head hurts.”

“You had a vision.”

“Yeah. I know. It sucked. Some dude gassed himself in his garage.”

"Sam says he's dead," Dean tells him.

Ross shrugs, "Yeah, you don't come back from that."

“Look, uh, Littlest Bro. I'm so sorry. I can't--"

"Shut up," Ross snaps, cutting him off. "I don't wanna talk about it, Dean."

Dean licks his lips, his mouth is so dry, he swallows painfully. "Right," he murmurs.

"Yeah," Ross replies tightly, his mouth quirks, a self-deprecating twist that’s nothing like Ross, but so much like Sam and so much like _himself_ that Dean feels something ache inside him. "I've been dealin' with you and Sammy and your fucked-up shit for six fuckin' years, what makes you think I'm not gonna be able to deal now?”

There's a long silence and Dean tries to think of what to say. But what the fuck _can_ he say? The damage was done a long fucking time ago.

Ross sighs, breaking the silence. “Look, I'm sorry I punched you.”

“Doesn’t matter. I deserved it.”

Ross stares at him for a moment, then exhales exasperatedly, rolls away, getting up off the bed stiffly. Dean sits up, watches him, not sure whether to get up off the bed and help him, but Ross would just push him away, he wouldn’t want to be treated like an invalid. He watches him bend over, grab for the painkillers again and a glass of water, he pops them, downing each one with a healthy glug of water. Ross has never been able to take any medication dry.

The door jerks open to reveal Sam standing on the threshold, regarding them both warily. He looks tired, his eyes red-rimmed and dark.

“We should go,” he says.

They get into the car, Sam sliding into the driver’s side after Dean only puts up a token protest. He’s taken way too much Vicodin over the past 12 hours to risk getting behind the wheel of his baby. Ross takes the backseat without a word, stolen motel pillow under his head. He goes off to sleep after only twenty miles, soft huff-huff of breathing in the tense silence.

Sam sighs, throws Dean a look, “I know you don’t want to, but we got to talk about this, Dean - not the visions, but the you and me stuff - about Ross knowing.”

“You have no idea how much I don’t want to talk about that,” says Dean.

“I think I kinda do.”

Dean huffs out a humorless breath, sighs heavily, “Yeah, maybe you do.”

They sit in silence for another long moment, then Sam says abruptly, “You know that this doesn’t change anything? Between us. I’m still gonna." He swallows, sets his shoulders. “I can’t stop wanting you just because he knows, Dean. I’m not built that way. And neither are you. Whatever happens, I’m always gonna feel this way about you. I’ve been living with it as long as I can remember, the first time I ever remember getting hard – it was because of you."

“Oh Jesus, Sam…”

“Don’t interrupt,” Sam says tiredly, he shoots him another sideways look, white-faced, eyes tight with tension. “Dean, I’m serious. I can’t do this without you. Since Jess, since everything. You’re the only thing keeping me together. I can’t – without you…” His voice hitches, and he pulls the car over, braking in his usual restrained way. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Sam continues. His voice is steadier now. “Last night when you were gone, I felt completely lost. Me and Ross, before the visions hit us, we talked some, he told me – about when he found out about us, about how long he’d known. He caught us once, you know? In Bobby’s yard one summer. We were in the back of a wrecked Cadillac.” He pauses, but Dean doesn’t say anything, mind going back to that summer - Dad leaving the three of them with Bobby, two fucking months Dad was gone and he was so frustrated by it, being left behind like that. He remembers working on cars a lot, shooting practice in Bobby’s make-shift range, morning runs around the neighboring fields, and Sammy. A whole lot of Sammy and his long, tan limbs, his sweat-soaked body, the two of them screwing around in the back of the wrecked cars.

“I meant what I said Dean, this doesn’t change anything. I need you, I’m always gonna need you. This isn’t over between us, it’s never gonna be. Not for me. Not now.”

He turns and gives Dean a look, and it’s that look again – that blazing, clear-eyed, all or nothing look. And Dean knows that he can’t resist, he doesn’t want to resist, he’s just kidding himself when he thinks he can. However bad he feels, however much he loathes himself for doing this to Ross, he’s not going to be able to say no to Sam, and hell, he doesn’t _want_ to.

Sam is the one thing, the only fucking thing in his life that gives him this absolute high, this crazy, stupid happiness. He loves his family, Dad, Ross, the job, more than anything, but he can't give up this again - he can't give up Sam - he's not that good a person.

“Yeah, okay," he says finally. He looks up, meets Sam's eyes, suddenly sure that this is it - this is what he truly and honestly wants. He wants Sam.

"Yeah, Sammy, okay. You and me, we'll figure it out."

 


	9. Chapter 9

Sam wakes just as Dean’s pulling the car up on a regular suburban street outside a regular suburban house. Outside, the rain is coming down in thick pleated sheets, bouncing off the road in fat drops, the wipers working crazily, sloshing water all over the steamed-up windshield. He peers through the window, and with a sinking feeling, recognizes the house from his vision.

Dean's face is still a mess, the bruise around his mouth has started to set in, a glorious blend of red-purple-yellow that’s only emphasized by his pale color. His lower lip is still split and swollen. It has to say something about Sam’s libido that the bruises and busted lip are in no way dissuading him from wanting to lean over and make out with him.

Together they watch a black Civic pull up. A couple get out, the woman holding a foil-wrapped plate in front of her like a biblical offering as they run through the rain, heading for the Millers’ covered porch.

“Fifty bucks says it’s a tuna casserole,” says Dean.

Sam snorts, “Yeah, probably.”

“So, this is the house? The one from your vision?” Dean turns and looks at him, gaze sweeping over him in a way that Sam knows means that Dean’s cataloging every expression, taking notes of any signs of Sammy’s distress. He’d feel irritated by the obvious smothering and protectiveness, if he didn’t find it weirdly comforting at the same time.

“Yes,” he says, “this is it.” Memories of the vision make him turn his head to check up on Ross. His younger brother's still asleep, head pressed against the stolen motel pillow, an impressive wet patch of drool forming by his half-open mouth. “Did he not wake up at all?” he asks Dean.

“No, been asleep for eleven, twelve hours straight. Think I saw a motel on the way into town, we should go there, wake him up, figure out what we’re gonna do.”

“Yeah,” agrees Sam with a sigh, “I mean, the guy’s dead.”

Dean nods thoughtfully, but he makes no move to start the car.

“Dean?” Sam prompts.

Dean glances at him, distracted. He waves a hand at a group of neighbors crossing the street, half hidden under huge golfing umbrellas, arms laden with yet more plates of condolence food.

“How we gonna get close to them? We can’t risk going in as police, they’re already here, already all over it,” he says.

Sam’s eyes run over the police cordon line still fastened to the outside of the garage – the same garage from his vision. “Yeah, we'll have to try something else.”

Dean grunts in agreement. His eyebrows knot together and his mouth begins to crook upwards.

“What?” asks Sam, he feels the coil in his chest start to unknot slightly. The expression on Dean’s face makes him look more like the cocky self-assured brother Sam knows than the exhausted, wrung-out guy he’s been sharing the car with for the last twelve hours. “What’re you thinking? And why do I have the sinking feeling that I don't wanna know?”

 

 

 

An hour later, in their latest motel room, and Sam still can’t believe that it’s come to this: Dean’s big plan is that they impersonate some priests to get close to the Millers.

“This is a new low, even for us,” he says.

“Dude, whatever,” retorts Ross. He looks slightly groggy, eyes heavy-lidded and skin pale, but other than that he seems restored to his old annoying self. He’s sitting propped up on the nicer of the twin beds, unwrapping the costumes Dean bought from their numerous layers of cellophane. They’re not even real priest outfits, but cheesy Father Nasty costumes and Sam really doesn’t want to know where Dean got them. “You not up for any role-play, Sammy?”

“Jesus, you’re twisted, you know that?”

“I’m gonna take that as a compliment,” says Ross.

Dean snorts and raises his eyebrows at Sam as Ross tosses the dog collar from one of the outfits at Sam’s chest. Sam picks it up and throws it back at Ross who snatches it out of the air with a wink. Sam rolls his eyes at him, but truthfully, he’s feeling relieved that Ross is back to some semblance of normal. Or at least, making a pretty fucking good show of it.

“So, Dean, what’re you gonna do while me and Sam talk to the family?”

“Huh?” frowns Dean.

“Dude, c’mon. You gotta sit this one out. They ain’t gonna fall for a priest with a beat-up face.”

“Oh yeah, good point,” Sam says. He’d been assuming it would be him and Dean doing the role-play – and doesn’t that conjure up interesting images – but Ross is completely right. Dean’s face is pretty much as bad as a sign around his neck saying – _I like getting drunk and getting into fights, ask me how_ \- definitely not priesthood-appropriate.

“You’re too young to pass as a priest,” Dean protests.

Ross shrugs. “Maybe, I could pretend to be, like, an intern.”

“I don’t think they have interns in the priesthood.”

“Well, like, a trainee or something. Anyway, Dean, it’s gotta be me and Sam, we’re the ones who had the fuckin’ visions. You should go talk to the neighbors,” says Ross dismissively. “Do some research into the house, or whatever, previous owners, all that shit.”

Dean looks up, an ironic, unhappy look passing over his face for a split second until he nods, says, “Fine, I’ll see you later.”

Sam watches him leave the room with a tight feeling in his chest. When he looks back at Ross, he’s surprised to see that his brother hasn’t even looked up, completely ignoring Dean’s exit.

 

 

 

“It’s the kid,” declares Ross as soon as they get back to the motel.

“We don’t know that,” says Sam. He dumps the bag of fast food on the table and tosses the room key next to it.

“I do,” says Ross. He grabs one of the burgers out the bag and starts to unwrap it, taking an obnoxiously big bite.

Sam sighs and takes a seat at the table. “You just didn’t like him ‘cause you thought he was ugly.”

“Yeah, well, he _was_ ugly. And creepy, don’t forget creepy.”

“Ross, his dad had just died. Cut the poor guy some goddamn slack.”

“Nuh-uh, no way. Everyone’s under suspicion. The mom, too.” He pauses, and Sam watches the way he works his tongue around his teeth, probably fishing out half-chewed lumps of meat from between his gums. “Though it was totally the kid,” Ross adds and pokes his finger into his mouth, retrieving a lump of gristle with an expression of triumph. Sam rolls his eyes at him. “What?” he protests. “S’fuckin’ gristle, I’m not eating that!”

“You’re disgusting.?”

“Says the guy who fucks his brother up the ass.”

Sam starts in surprise, whips his head up to see Ross regarding him with a smirking look. Sam opens his mouth, about to say something, when Ross adds quickly, “S’not like you can deny it. Or is it the other way around: he does you up the ass?”

“I'm not talking about this.”

“Jesus, you’re such a fuckin’ pussy, Sammy. We ain’t got no secrets, no more. Don't you get that?”

“ _No_ ,” he snaps. “We’re not talking about me and Dean and all that. Look – can’t we just talk about the goddamn case?”

“Fine,” Ross shrugs. "But I’ve already solved the case: the house was clean which means no spirit activity, which leaves the kid.”

“But how was it the kid?”

“Well, I haven’t fuckin’ solved that part yet! Jesus, man, maybe the sonofabitch’s got, like, Jedi powers or something. Gotta have something to make up for looking like an ugly-ass freak.”

“So, he killed his dad with _The Force?_ Seriously?”

Ross snickers, snatching up a handful of fries and cramming them into his mouth while Sam shakes his head at him. He swallows the enormous mouthful with a gulp and points an accusing finger Sam’s way. “I’m telling you, man, it was him. My spidey sense was totally all over the little freak.”

The thing is, Ross could be right. Sam did get a weird vibe from the kid – Max – he should remember that. There was something about him. Sam's starting to trust Ross’s instincts on these things. In fact, from what Sam can gather from Ross’s pain-wracked ramblings after the visions, his little brother seems to be experiencing exactly what he is, but with a hell of a lot more detail. It was Ross who caught the license plate on Jim Miller’s car, while Sam just got a blur. A guy’s face, a car engine, a garage, then floods of pain and terror and fear. Ross got all that, but he also got the details that counted, and Ross has not been wrong so far.

Sam reaches into the greasy bag for his burger. He doesn’t really want it, he's not feeling hungry, and after Ross’s little display of Winchester table manners, he really doesn’t want it. But he hasn’t eaten for twelve hours, so he should eat something. They have to figure this case out after all, figure out why he and Ross had to watch Jim Miller die.

He glances at Ross again; he’s stuffing his face, looking like he’s trying to win the cram-as-many-fries/chips/M&;M’s/whatever-as-possible-in-your-mouth-at-once game that used to entertain the three of them over endless boring car journeys. It was something Dean invented to keep them occupied, except being the oldest and having the biggest mouth, Dean always won. 

“Dude, you don’t look so good.”

Sam flinches, face flushing red, thoughts of Dean on his knees, putting his mouth’s awesome stretching talents to work on Sam’s cock immediately flickering away.

“I’m fine,” he lies. He pushes the barely-touched burger away and adjusts his pants surreptitiously under the table. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

In the bathroom, he tugs off the skeezy, scratchy costume and tosses it to the floor with a grimace. The water pressure in the shower is surprisingly good, and it feels amazing on his half-hard cock. He’s just about starting to relax, slowly running his fingers up and down his hardening cock, going back to the image on Dean on his knees, when he hears the door slam open and the toilet lid fall shut.

“Sam?”

“Jesus, Ross! How about some privacy!”

“C’mon, man, relax,” says Ross, sounding amused. “Not like I haven’t seen your enormous ass naked before. Hey, you weren’t jackin’ off in there, were you?”

“No!”

Ross laughs. “Such a fuckin’ liar, man. But, whatever, don’t get your balls in a twist, ain't good for ‘em.”

Sam grits his teeth and gives his wilting erection an irritated look, saving his best glare for the Ross-shaped shadow on the other side of the shower curtain.

“Shut up, and hand me a towel.” He hears Ross fumbling around as he turns off the water. He sticks one hand out the curtain, grabbing the offered towel and grunting out a grudging thanks.

“No problem,” says Ross, still sounding unaccountably cheerful. Of course, the little shit knew what Sam was doing in the shower. He probably timed his entrance perfectly. Sam fastens the towel carefully around his waist, scowling to himself as he pulls the curtain back.

Ross is sitting on the closed toilet. He’s also taken off the priest’s costume, in fact, he’s stripped down to just his boxers. 

“What are you doing?” Sam asks as he takes a seat on the edge of the tub. “And why are you practically naked?”

“Thought I’d take a shower after you.”

“Well, you could’ve waited till I was done!”

“Oh right, done. Is that’s what you call it,” Ross returns with a smirk, lengthening the word with this obnoxious, knowing look on his face that makes Sam itch to punch him. Instead, he settles for glaring, there’s been far too much punching already. “Oh, get over yourself. Why you being so fuckin’ precious about it? I’ve heard you jerk off plenty of times!”

Sam sighs manfully and drops his head into his hands, groaning out, “What do you want?”

Ross laughs and the sound is almost fond, but at the same time, totally and completely evil. “I think we should, you know, like, talk? You know, like, seriously?”

Sam raises his head from his hands and stares at him, feeling suddenly beyond confused. He’s not sure if he recognizes this version of his younger brother. Ross wants to talk to him. What kind of bizarro world is this? Ross never wants to talk, he can’t think of one single occasion over the course of their entire lives together when Ross has _ever_ suggested that the two of them talk. Their family is not exactly the care-and-share sort. They get that from Dad, who is the king of stoic, soldierly silences and repression of all feelings except anger, denial and vengeance. On the few occasions over the years when Sam has needed to talk about anything, then he’s always gone to Dean. Just as he knows Ross has, but for some reason, Ross isn’t going to Dean now, Ross is going to him.

“You and me?” he clarifies.

Ross makes a _well, duh_ face.

“Oh, right, well I guess, we could do that,” says Sam lamely.

There’s a long, awkward sort of a silence for a few seconds while the two of them stare at the wet floor tiles, then Ross suddenly speaks up, “Well, I guess I’ll bite.” And the phrasing and the emphasis in the way Ross says it sounds so much like Dean that Sam is almost shocked when he raises his head and sees that it’s still Ross sitting next to him on the closed toilet.

He doesn’t have time to respond to Ross’s awkward opener as his little brother has already started speaking again, an uncomfortable and incoherent stream of words and half-apologies. “I didn’t mean for all that shit to come out. I just got fucked-up and I was drunk, well, I guess I’d sobered up some, but I was, like, in a weird mood, and you and Dean were – well, I saw you. In the diner, through the window, you were in one of the booths. And you were, like, so freakin’ gay, man, that it just – I dunno, just made me go all crazy. And it was so fuckin’ dumb of me, 'cause I already kinda knew that you and he were back to doing all that fucked-up shit together. But I didn’t want to know and there you both were, all, like, in my face, like the whole world didn’t matter anymore." He heaves a breath and shrugs, naked shoulders shuddering as he passes a hand over his face.

Sam wets his lips, his mouth feels dry, “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“No you’re not,” says Ross flatly. “If you were really sorry then you’d be willing to stop. Except I know you’re not.”

Sam feels his mouth work soundlessly, unable to deny the straightforward and undeniable truth in Ross’s words. Ross is right. He’s not willing to stop. He can’t think of anything that would ever make him stop. Even if Dad found out he wouldn’t want to stop. He can’t get away from how he feels about Dean. He’s never going to stop wanting him with this inexhaustible and inescapable ache that’s as much a part of him as his eye color or his height or his last name.

“I. Yeah. You’re right,” he admits finally. “I guess you deserve to know, but, yeah. I’m never gonna stop feeling the way I do about Dean, and if I get my way, then we’re never gonna stop doing what we do together, being together.”

Ross’s mouth twists, and it’s a mixture of so many things, hostility, impotent anger, desperation, loss, the list could go on. Sam swallows, looks away, unable to look at Ross.

“Ross, if I could – if things could be different –“

“Jesus Christ, Sam! Would you just SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

Sam flinches, grips onto the edge of the bathtub. Ross’s chest is heaving, breath coming in short, hard pants, face red and blotchy with emotion. He balls his fists, choking his words out through clenched teeth: “I don’t wanna hear any more of your fuckin’ pathetic, waste of fuckin’ time apologies! Quit pretending that you even give a shit about me or my feelings, 'cause you don’t! You never have – you only care about you and Dean and stickin’ your cocks into each other!”

Sam freezes as Ross gets to his feet, pushing him out the way as Ross stumbles and falls out the door, slipping and sliding on the wet floor, grabbing onto the doorframe to steady himself before he practically _throws_ the door shut, frame shuddering under the impact.

Sam gets slowly to his feet, realizing belatedly that he’s trembling, still wearing just a towel. Water from his soaked hair slides down his face and neck, droplets rolling down his bare chest and back. He pulls off his towel and bends over to dry his hair, the movements automatic and instinctive, still reeling from Ross’s outburst.

Outside, in the room, Ross is lying on his back on one of the beds, naked apart from his boxers. His face is pale, expression blank, eyes locked on some mysterious crack in the ceiling above him.

“Ross?” he says tentatively.

Ross makes no move, no show of having heard him.

“Ross?” he repeats, padding forward. Still no answer. “Assface?”

It was one of his favorite insults for him when they were kids. One of many, but it was probably the one that stuck the most, the favorite of his ten year old self.

Silently Ross rolls onto his side, putting his back to him.

“Oh, so you’ll respond to Assface, but not to your actual name.”

“Fuck you, brotherfucker!” bites out Ross.

Sam snorts, he can’t help it, he thinks maybe that he’s feeling hysterical. He takes a breath, makes a decision and pads up to Ross’s bed, puts his hand on Ross’s bare shoulder and rolls him back over onto his back.

“I don’t think we’d finished talking,” he says.

“I had!”

He ignores the death-glare on Ross’s face and sinks onto the bed, naked thigh brushing against his brother’s shoulder.

“Fuck off, asshole!” snarls Ross, struggling into a sitting position. “Get your ugly motherfucking ass off my fuckin’ bed! Don’t confuse me with Dean, I ain’t your faggot brother who’s gonna suck your fuckin’ cock!”

Sam presses his lips together, trying to damp down the rising anger. It’s not going to do any good to argue with Ross. The fallout starts here and he knows that it's going to last a long, long time.

“Ross, just – tell me. Why did you want to talk to me?”

“Cause I’m too fuckin’ stupid to live!” Ross chokes out. “I thought, maybe! If I could – I dunno… It doesn’t matter!” Sam watches in silence as Ross heaves out a breath and brings his knees up to his chest to rest his face on his folded arms. “I should’ve known, I knew about you two for fuckin’ years, and I just – it was okay, you know? I was, like, dealing. And then you went off to college, and it was all so good, 'cause I didn’t have to think about it – and it was just me and him. And you weren’t there, with him all the time! Both of you always making out like I was this dumb, little kid who knew shit."

“We never… Ross, it wasn’t like that -”

“Whatever, Sam! You made it pretty fuckin’ clear, you ain’t gonna change anything. So I’ve just gotta, like, suck it up, right? And he’ll be all, like, he’ll choose you. He always chooses you! His precious Sammy!”

The words snap out of Ross and hang in the air around them. Sam swallows, tongue slipping out to wet his lips, eyes glazing over with tears. He doesn’t know what to say. For once, he feels like he can’t argue back. He can’t defend himself from this accusation, because Ross is right. Dean already said it. Dean chose him, put them above Ross and family and everything else. For the first time ever. Sam’s heart swells at the memory, his chest getting tight and warm at the memory of Dean’s face when he said those words. 

Ross is silent, breathing quietly into his folded arms. Sam stares at the back of his neck, his nape, the strip of skin exposed by his short hairline, the elegant, well-crafted curve of his spine. He’s always been fascinated, attracted, _aroused_ by male bodies. The broad expanse of a guy’s back, muscled arms, smooth elegant curve of shoulder blades, the wave-like shape of a spine, flowing down from strong, powerful shoulders to a round, shapely ass and toned thighs.

Ever since he was eleven years old and he remembers watching Dean shower, messing around with deodorant and towels and underwear just so he could see his big brother getting undressed. Dean was fifteen years old, and already watching Dean change was doing strange things to Sam’s insides, making his skin feel too hot and too tight while his stomach would buzz and he’d feel the flush of wanting to touch flowing through every pore and every blood vessel.

He always thought he was gay. Before Jess, he never felt attracted to girls,only ever feeling that tug in his belly for boys who resembled his big brother. It’s unsettling because looking at Ross from this angle, staring at the sof, smooth skin of his little brother’s back, the graceful shapes of his muscles, the definition in Ross’s arms and shoulders, he can see just how much Ross does resemble Dean. Sam’s never really thought about it before, but Ross’s body, the elegant, supple curves of him, the soft, smooth skin – it’s all Dean.

His fingers twitch and he wants suddenly, urgently to touch him, to smooth his fingers down Ross’s back and feel his skin under his fingertips. He wants to see if Ross feels as much like Dean as it looks.

“What the hell’s going on here?”

Sam snatches his hand back and whips his head around. Dean’s standing in the doorway, the door open behind him, staring at the two of them with a narrow-eyed, suspicious expression on his face. Immediately a rush of blood floods Sam’s face, and he realizes dismally that he’s blushing.

“We’re having a big heart to heart,” sneers Ross. “Gettin’ it all out there, in the open.”

“Yeah, right,” scoffs Dean. He steps forward, closes the door behind him.

“No, Dean, seriously, he’s right,” Sam says.

“What? I’m gone for, like, an hour, and you two suddenly decide, it’s confession time? You do know I was joking about the role play, right? Speaking of: why are you both naked?”

“And why are you being so fuckin’ defensive?” retorts Ross.

“I’m not!”

“Hell, yeah, you are!”

Dean’s lips press together and heglares at them. He stalks into the room, throws the car keys onto the table among the half-eaten food. Neither he nor Ross have moved, Ross still with his legs drawn up to his chest, arms folded over his knees, chin resting on his folded arms, eyes tracking Dean’s every movement. Sam's still sprawled out next to him, long legs half on, half-off the bed. He hadn't even noticed he was still naked. 

He slides off the bed, goes to gather up his clean clothes.

“So, what were you talkin’ about?” he hears Dean ask. 

“Whatcha think?” says Ross. “The big gay incest elephant in the room.”

Dean flinches at the words, face going pale as he grits out, “Right, course, that. What about the case?”

“Fuck the case. It was the kid, anyway.”

“The kid?” Dean frowns, “You mean, Max?”

“Yeah, him.”

Sam straightens up, holding a pair of boxers in his hand. “What did you find out?” he asks.

“Okay, well, yeah, I did find out some stuff. The kid, Max, according to their old neighbors, he was abused, beaten up regularly by the father and the uncle.”

“I knew it!” exclaims Ross. “I fuckin’ told you, Sam, it was him. He did it to get back at his dad.”

“Still doesn’t explain _how_ he did it,” points out Sam.

Ross shrugs, “The Force.”

“There’s no such thing as-–“

_…he’s in an apartment, unpacking groceries, except no… not him… Roger Miller, the uncle…_

Somewhere, foggy, a long way away, he can hear someone sobbing, Dean’s voice…

_…he fixes the window in the kitchen, they’re sash windows…_

“Ross, Ross? Oh Christ, man. Sam!”

_… he leans out the window…_

A bloodcurdling scream – his own, Ross’s, the soon-to-be-dead-guy’s - hurls him out of the vision and back into the motel room. He’s on the floor, clutching bed sheets between his fingers, incessant pressure hammering against the sides of his head. Someone’s whimpering, whining, painful sounds, and above it all, Dean’s voice, calm and confident and soothing.

_“Shhhh, it’s okay, buddy, I’m here, I gotcha, littlest bro, it’s alright, just – c’mon, it’s okay…”_

Sam staggers to his feet, gaze swooping the room, zooming in on the spot when they're sprawled across the floor: Ross, naked, cradled against Dean’s chest, fingers clutching at Dean’s shoulders as he shudders against Dean, Dean’s arm around his waist, holding him close, hand smoothing gently over the back of his head.

“Dean?”

Dean’s head jerks his way, his eyes wide and wet. “Sam – get the pills,” he croaks.

Sam gulps, reaches to turn over his duffle, contents spiraling to the floor as he rummages through them. He finds the two small pots of pills and he’s shaking a couple into his palm, holding them out for Dean.

“And some water. You know he can’t take them dry.”

Oh right, yeah, but there’s no time for him to roll his eyes at Ross’s fucked-up gag reflex. He’s already in the bathroom, filling up one of the toothpaste-stained glasses.

Dean feeds Ross the pills like he’s five years old again. Ross's face is white and tear-streaked, eyes creased with pain, fingers locked in a death-grip on Dean’s collar.

Sam sinks to the floor beside them, stammers, “Ross, did you see it: the guy – the uncle? The apartment? The window?”

Ross’s lips move, breathing out, “He’s gonna lose his head.”

Dean lets out a tight, pained breath and adjusts his grip on Ross, pulling him closer. Sam wets his lips, catches Dean’s eyes, wide and terrified.

“The address? Did you get the address?”

“Apartment 4b, Browning Court,” Ross chokes out.

Sam nods, “Right, okay. Dean, we, should – we should go, man. We don’t know how much warning we got.”

“ _What?_ No way, no way. I’m not leaving him like this!” Dean’s face is closed, certain, his arms wrapped around Ross. Ross’s fingers claw at him as if he wants nothing more than to climb out his own body and into Dean’s.

Sam feels his heart thud still, but Dean’s right, they can’t leave Ross on his own, like this.

“I'm sorry, Sammy, you’re gonna have to manage this one on your own.”

He hesitates, and for a moment, for a second, he thinks: _fuck it, let him die, he deserves it, he’s a child-abuser…_ But he forces the thought away. The guy’s about to be beheaded for Christ’s sake, and he's hardly in a good place to pass judgement.

He can do this. He can do this on his own. He knows where to go, he’s just got to warn the guy, stop him from going into that apartment. Should be easy.

 

 

 

*** 

 

 

Dean knows that they’ve fucked it all up, this hunt's a notch in the negative column. There’s maybe some part of him somewhere that might care, that might give a shit if he hadn’t had to feed his youngest brother more fucking Vicodin and OxyContin just to stop him from screaming with pain. But considering he did have to do that and it's all the fault of the fucking Miller family, he doesn’t care so much.

He stands outside by the car and smokes while Sam deals with the stepmother. Sam’s still feeling guilty, course he is, ever the altruist, insisting that he can talk to the kid. “If I can just speak to him, Dean, tell him that we understand, tell him about me and Ross, that he’s not alone."

Sam didn’t listen, Dean knew it was no good trying to reason with someone pushed that far, and honestly, he doesn’t blame Max, not entirely. This family doesn’t deserve their sympathy. They brought this shit on themselves, the father, the uncle, the stepmother, all their sins coming to rest on this monster freak of a kid, until he couldn’t take it anymore. There’s probably some sort of lesson he can learn from it, something for him and Sam to take in from the fucked-up parallel of Ross whimpering and crying in his arms with pain, while he and Sam escape pain-free.

He gulps back the thought, swallowing the bile and acid and nastiness in his throat that’s only partly due to the nicotine. He peers through the back window into the car’s backseat. Ross is awake, head cradled on yet another stolen motel pillow; he catches Dean’s eye, raises his eyebrows and cranks open the door.

“Give me one of those,” he demands.

Rolling his eyes, Dean thrusts his half-smoked pack into Ross’s hand. His little brother may have just recovered from a debilitating vision only hours ago, but God forbid it get in the way of his 20 a day habit.

“How’s your head feeling?” he asks.

Ross squints at him. “Dean, quit worrying, it’s fine. I feel much better.”

“We’re still going to see a doctor.”

“Why? What’s the point? S’not like they can do anything. It’s something supernatural that’s causing the visions, not a fuckin’ aneurism.”

“Maybe, yeah. We don’t know. But it’s the only way we’re gonna get some more of those tasty painkillers you’ve been throwing down your neck non-stop the last few days.”

“Oh, right, yeah, okay then.”

Dean huffs out a humorless laugh and watches through the living room window as Sam talks to the stepmother. He can imagine the look on Sam’s face: the big, sympathetic eyes and understanding smile. He finishes his cigarette and throws the butt to the ground, grinding it out with the heel of his boot. When he looks up, Sam is jogging down the steps from the front door, hands in his pockets.

 

 

 

The doctors don’t find anything. Dean insists that they run the CAT scan, all the freaking scans and tests their latest fake card can take. He pours over all of them with Sam at his shoulder, squinting at the confusing mess of yellows and grays and blues that make up Ross’s brain.

“Dude, are you getting any of this?”

Sam shrugs, “It looks clean to me, but I’m not a doctor, Dean. I don’t know.” He presses his lips together, that crease of concern between his eyebrows, and Dean itches, almost fucking _vibrates_ with the urge to touch him. It’s been five days since they were last together, since Ross dropped his big, fat bombshell, and he wants to feel Sam against him, under him, over him, inside him, so badly. 

Sam turns to look at him, his face bathed in the eerie, white light coming from the scanner equipment.

“ _Dean…_ ” Sam breathes, and Dean leans in, catches his mouth in a kiss, feeling Sam’s hands come up to cradle his face, kissing him back with that desperation and fervor that is all Sam.

There’s a coughing noise and they spring apart. The doctor is standing in the doorway, eying them suspiciously.

“Are we ready to talk about your brother?” the guy asks pointedly.

The scans are fine, the doctors don’t find anything, and despite Ross’s characteristic, “Well, I could've told you that,” speech afterwards, Dean is relieved. At least, now, they do know for sure that whatever’s doing this to Ross, causing him such debilitating pain is something supernatural, something from their world. They can deal with that in a way they couldn’t deal with a tumor or an aneurism or anything else Dean’s unforgiving subconscious has been dredging up when he’s trying to sleep.

They just need to now figure out how to stop it.

 

 

 

A couple of days later, they still don’t have a case to occupy them, no word from Dad, no texted coordinates or weird newspaper stories. Dean feels restless and so does Ross, neither of them share Sam’s geek-boy love of research. So, on the third night, they head out to a bar while Sam stays back in the room, ever-present laptop on his knees and Dad’s journal by his hip, big legal pad filled with scrawls of every instance of psychic families – siblings sharing visions – he’s found so far. Dean stares at the pages of Sam’s research and feels his stomach churn. At some point they’re gonna have to do something about the list.

But not tonight, tonight he just wants to get wasted.

Ross takes the wheel, tells him that he’s heard from the motel owner’s daughter of this awesome bar in town, one in the cool, happening area. Dean’s too damn grateful to get away from the motel room and the endless research to suggest something else. 

He lets Ross drive, cursing himself out for his pathetic attempts at trying to win his little brother’s love again when he hears his poor baby’s tires collide with the sidewalk as Ross tries to park her. Jesus, he should just be grateful for the fact there’s no freaking fire hydrant for Ross to hit too. He gets out, pats her conciliatorily on the hood, murmuring an apology under his breath and taking the keys firmly from Ross.

“That one there, it’s called Heaven.”

He looks up, follows where Ross is pointing, eyes narrowing suspiciously. 

“Dude, did you bring us to a _gay_ bar?”

“Thought you were into that sorta shit,” Ross says, the evil smirk not moving off his face. “Are you coming? Or, shall I go on in by myself?”

Just as Dean fears, Ross immediately makes a beeline for the bar. He orders them some beers, gets Dean to pay, then promptly ignores him in favor of talking to some tweaked-out kid. Dean swallows down his beer and looks away; eyes scanning the room. When he looks back, Ross is already disappearing into the crowd, following his tweaked-up friend. Dean stares after him, contemplating whether he’s sad and desperate enough to follow, when he feels some guy’s hand on his back, deep voice in his ear:

“Hey, gorgeous, can I buy you a drink?”

He’s about to snarl at him to fuck off, when he catches a glimpse of the guy’s face and his body, and he’s… well, he’s hot and he’s built. Not Sam-levels of hot or built, but he’s cute, and Dean’s really fucking horny. 

“Yeah, I’ll have a JD, a large one.”

“Alright, then,” the guy says, giving him an enormous grin, like he can’t believe his luck. Dean gives the room another quick scan while his new pal turns to order their drinks, well-honed eyes immediately locating Ross at one of the tables in the corner. He’s talking to a guy, not his tweaked-out friend, but an older guy, who looks to be in his 30’s at least, if not older. The guy’s eyes are locked on Ross, staring at Ross’s face as he talks with this hungry look that has Dean tightening his grip on his beer bottle and trying to resist the urge to stalk over there and punch the guy in the face for daring to look at his little brother in that way.

“Hey, here you go,” Dean's new friend says, handing him his drink. He smiles and _hey, wouldja look at that_ , he’s got a damn fine smile too. “What’s your name? I’m Scott.”

“Dean," he tells him.

“Oh right,” the guy nods, smiling and sipping his drink, eyes wandering all over Dean’s face and body in a way that Dean’d be normally totally into if that fucking pedophile over in the corner didn’t have his goddamn cradle-robbing hand on his baby brother’s thigh. “So, you live here? Or just visiting?”

“We’re just visiting,” he answers, giving the guy - Scott - a distracted smile. “Just passing through.”

“We?”

“Oh, me and my brothers.”

“Say, one of your brothers wouldn’t happen to be the guy in the corner you can’t stop checking up on?”

Dean hesitates for a moment, glass half-raised to his lips. “Yeah, that’s him. And I’m not – I’m not checkin’ up on him, it’s just – he’s a kid, you know? And that fuckin’ creep –“

“Dude, dude, chill," Scott says, smiling sympathetically at him. “I’ve got a kid sister, I get it. But believe me, you can’t keep a track of 'em all night."

“I can try,” Dean mutters darkly.

Scott laughs, big and throaty. Dean drains the rest of his drink, cocks an eyebrow at him. “You wanna buy me another?” He gives him his best seductive smile, running his tongue over his lips, “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Scott gulps, stammers, “Yeah, yeah, sure.”

Halfway through Dean’s fourth or fifth drink, the sonofabitch in the corner makes a move on Ross, pushes him back against the booth and leans in to kiss him, ugly hands sliding all over Ross’s chest and face. They make out for a while and when the guy finally pulls away, Dean can see his little brother’s face through the crowd, his mouth twisting up into an evil, triumphant smirk when his eyes meet Dean’s.

_The goddamn little shit…_

Well, Dean’s been playing this game a lot longer than his little brother and this is his territory. He slams down the rest of his drink, inches his fingers into his new best friend’s waistband and pulls him into a blisteringly hot kiss. Scott catches on quick, grabbing his hips and heaving him closer with the kind of grabby strength that Dean’s only accustomed to getting from Sam.

He doesn’t feel bad for making out with this guy. Actually, he feels pretty damn good for it. Scott knows how to kiss, and the four or five JD’s in his bloodstream are making Dean feel loose and relaxed. His body responding to the sensation of Scott’s big hands on his body, groping his ass and sliding over his hardening cock, his mouth up against Dean’s ear, whispering over and over, _"Jesus, you’re so freakin’ hot. Christ, dude, so hot…"_ in a breathless, groaning way that’s a goddamn salve to a guy’s ego.

He’s got nothing to feel bad about, anyway. He and Sam aren't in a _relationship_ , they’re not going steady, for Christ’s sake.

When he finally manages to break away from Scott, taking a much-needed breath, he sees Ross glaring daggers at him, his cradle-robbing companion staring across the room at Dean with a befuddled expression. Dean smirks and raises his glass to them in a salute, seeing Ross’s mouth twist in fury.

Dean finishes his drink, slips away from Scott while he orders yet another round of drinks, and heads for the bathroom.

Like a lot of other gay club bathrooms Dean’s been in, this one’s got anti-junkie, blue lighting and heated sex sounds coming from two locked stalls. He smirks to himself, watching the flimsy stall doors rattle as one of the occupants starts begging: _give it to me hard, big boy, c’mon, wanna feel your big, fat cock, give it to me, you hot, sizzling slut._ Dean makes a face at his reflection. Someone needs to tell them that they’re in a freaking men’s room, not a porno.

He’s standing in front of the mirror, taring at his ghostly, blue-tinged reflection, fingers going ice white under the stream of freezing cold water when Ross comes in. They stare at each other in the mirror for a long moment, and Dean knows, with a deadening sense of inevitability, that this is when the shit really hits the fan.

Ross moves like a cat, grabs onto him and shoulders him into the nearest unoccupied stall. Ross pushes him up against the thin rattling partition and shoves his tongue into Dean’s mouth before Dean’s even fully aware of what’s happening. It doesn’t occur to him to break away, instead he goes limp, lets his little brother hold him up and take from him.

There’s something familiar about the way Ross kisses, the shape of his mouth and the fuzzy stubble, but there’s something missing too. When Sam kisses him it’s like free-falling from an airplane, like that moment in a hunt when he doesn’t know whether he’s gonna live or die. Ross is different. Ross is pushy, greedy and hungry for every little thing Dean can give him, starved for every bit of affection and attention.

Ross says his name and Dean opens his eyes. Despite everything, he can feel his slutty cock start to harden, an instinctive response to the hard muscled body pressing against his own in all the right places. From the corner of his eye, he can make out the blur of slanted animal eyes, dark and shadowed by long delicate lashes, Sammy-colored skin and dark hair. He gasps when he feels Ross jam his hand down his pants, taking his cock in one rough hand.

“I saw you watching me with that dude,” whispers Ross. He sounds smug, a little smile playing at the corner of his mouth, fingers curling tighter around Dean’s growing erection.

“What?”

“You were watching us, Dean. Did you think I was gonna let him take me out back, suck his big, ole cock?”

“Shut up,” he breathes out, but Ross just laughs, leans in and whispers, “You don’t fool me, big brother. That little show you put on – it was all for me, wasn’t it?”

Dean freezes, says nothing, feeling the truth in Ross’s words.

“Don’t matter, I only made out with that guy 'cause I knew you were watching. Did you like watchin’ me with him, huh? Is that what gets you off, Dean?”

Dean growls and grabs at his brother's wrist, forcing his hand away with a dark threatening look. Ross hesitates, the smug, knowing smile disappearing as quickly as a lost TV signal.

“What the fuck are you playin’ at, Ross?”

Ross fumbles, his mouth working unhappily, big eyes and trembling lips making him look like a lost little boy again.

“I – Dean… I want – I just… I wanna see what it's like."

“Fine!” Dean snarls out, “you got it.”

He spins his brother around, pushes him up against the rattling partition. Ross's eyes widen, pupils dilating, going dark and epic. He pants hotly into Dean's face when Dean goes for the kiss, mouth burning and alcohol-sour under Dean’s.

"Here," says Dean roughly, shoving three fingers into Ross's mouth. Ross licks them, demanding and needy, his mouth feels brutally hot, and Dean can feel himself stiffen even more, cock hard as diamonds, pressed up against his little brother's body. He pushes his hand into Ross's pants, covering his cock with his slicked-up fingers. Ross's cock is not as big as Sam's, it's like Dean's own, creepily familiar in Dean's fist.

"You want this, Ross? You want me, littlest brother?"

The familiar nickname makes Ross moan and buck, his eyes wide and open, latched onto Dean's face. Sam always closes his eyes when they kiss, and isn't it funny how Dean can do this - how he can compare what sex with both his little brothers is like? Sam would be biting him by now, sucking and biting at his skin with closed eyes and fluttering lashes. But Ross's eyes are still open, fixated on the faded bite mark on Dean's collarbone, the one Sam put there only seven days ago. Ross lays his fingertips against it and presses, as if he wants to erase Sam's mark from Dean's skin. It's so pathetically clichéd and inevitable. Ross has always wanted what Sam has.

Dean closes his eyes against his brother's relentless gaze and thinks of Sam. He remembers laying him out over nasty motel sheets only days before, Sam fucking him against the bathroom sink, their eyes meeting in the mirror. He thinks about the way Sam looked at him in bed, how Sam laughed and called him a lame-ass and ran his hands over and over him, muttering his name until it became a meaningless syllable. " _When I say I want to kiss every inch of your body, I really mean it,_ " Sam said with serious eyes, and it had been Dean's turn to call him a lame-ass, but Sammy just laughed again and kissed him, and Dean felt such joy and ridiculous happiness that he knew that was it: this was the moment he'd hang onto for forever, the one he'd think of before he died.

Ross gasps and shoots, choking out something into the side of Dean's face. Dean thinks of Sam's long fingers wrapped around his throat, stealing his air, his breath, his goddamn fucking heart, and he comes too, spilling onto his little brother's hand.

He opens his eyes, Ross is still there, still staring at him, come-wet fingers held out under Dean's nose, like he's displaying something. _Look, Dean, look what I did. Was I good? Did I do well?_

"Were you thinking of Sam?" Ross demands. "When you shot on my hand?"

The nauseous feeling in Dean's stomach turns over again. He forces himself to look Ross in the face, see the damp tendrils of hair, the pink flush in his cheeks that _he_ put there.

"None of your business," he says. He reaches behind him for the toilet paper, cleaning off his hand with a grimace.

There's a flair of hurt in Ross's face. He moves, quick and deft, (he's always been the fastest of the three of them) to block the stall door.

"I fuck - I fuckin' well deserve to know," he says, stammering over the words. His expression has gone hard, eyes turned into slants, suspicious and dangerous. He stares at Dean, wipes his hands on his shirt, Dean's come streaked across the faded blue like fucked-up war paint, gleaming slimily in the blue-tinged light.

"No you don't," scoffs Dean. "You give me one fuckin' handjob, and you think that it means anything? Well, it doesn't, Ross."

"Bullshit," says Ross, quick and slick, any weakness instinctively under wraps. Fuck, his little brother has been taught well. His tongue comes out, licking over his lips, he's staring at Dean appraisingly, as if he can see right through him, and suddenly, in that moment, Dean's afraid of his youngest brother. "You're lying to me, Dean. You might've been thinking about _him_ , but you were with me and it meant something. You were teasing me all fuckin’ night. You don't just - do shit like this - with your own fuckin' brother and have it mean nothing!" He pauses, smirks nastily. "Well, _you_ do, but you know what I mean."

Dean blinks, Ross is still staring at him, dark eyes boring into him. And he’s kinda right, there was a part of Dean that _was_ turned on, a part that's been getting off on this entire fucking night. He licks his lips, trying to find the words.

"It meant nothing. It was a mistake. I'm sorry, I'm just. Really fuckin' sorry, man, we shouldn't have done that."

"Bullshit!" cries Ross, the words cracking against Dean's skull, too fucking loud and angry, reminding him sickeningly of his father. "Bull. Shit." He reaches out and grabs at Dean's shirt, fisting his fingers in the worn fabric, his eyes wild, unhinged, dangerous. "Don't fuckin' do this to me, Dean! Don't push me away like this and say that! It's not fair." His face scrunches up in that way that Dean recognizes, the way that means he's in pain, and Dean immediately wants to comfort him, he wants to wrap him up in his arms and make everything okay again.

He can do it, he's done it thousands of times before. He can comfort his little brother who he loves so fucking much. He can hold him and tell him that it's okay, that it's gonna be okay, that he's there for him, that he'll always be there for him.

But he can't do it right now. Not when they've done this. 

"Ross," he whispers.

Ross shakes, desperate and lost. He looks so much like Sam like this that Dean feels as if he's breaking all over again, he's floating away, he’s not really there, because this isn’t him. Dad would kill him, Dad would seriously put him in the fucking ground for doing this. And he would deserve it. Not just one brother, but _two_. How dhas he managed to fuck things up that badly? But Ross is talking; words tumbling out his mouth, pleading and deadly.

"It's not fair. He's had you for so long, and I didn't. I never had you like that, and that's not fair, because you're my brother too. I wasn't the one who left you. I've been here the entire fucking time, he left you, he left all of us, he doesn't deserve you. C'mon, Deano. Please."

"What." He pauses, mouth dry, tries to find his voice again. "What do you want?"

Ross tightens his grip on Dean. "I want what Sammy has. It's. It's only fair. Please."

And at that moment, Dean doesn't know what else to do, what else to say, so he says what Ross wants to hear. "Okay. Okay then."

 


	10. Chapter 10

Nothing changes. Well, not immediately. There’s no seismic shift or sudden stop or any of those overwrought Sammy type expressions that sometimes get stuck in Dean's head when he’s drifting off, following endless blacktop and endless stretches of boring roads, never changing scenery and never changing music and never changing fights.

But something _has_ changed. Something _has_ shifted. Ross doesn’t start all of a sudden jumping him whenever he can, but his youngest brother has taken to looking at him in that way that makes Dean sick to the stomach. Having people look at him like that is not new to him, he knows he’s a hot piece of ass, people look at him like that all the goddamn time. Sam looks at him like that, has done for years, back when he was fifteen and confused and the only fucking thing in Dean’s sorry life that’s ever made any sense.

But Ross looks at him now like he’s remembering what it felt like to have Dean come all over his hands and to have Dean fall apart because of him. The thought makes him nauseaous because it's not supposed to be like that with Ross. And Dean's terrified that Sam's going to notice because Ross is incapable of being subtle about anything. 

In a bar in Minnesota, Dean drinks too much. Ross matching him shot for shot, eyes resting dangerously on him, on his mouth, following the line of each shot to his lips. Dean grimaces and shoves him away.

“Stop fuckin’ staring at me.”

Ross scowls back at Dean, irritable and prickly. “Fuck you.”

Dean laughs bitterly, “Yeah. Whatever.”

Sam’s not there. He stayed back in the motel room. Claiming he was tired, and he looked it. Dark circles and blotchy white face, but not ugly, not Sammy, never that, at least not to Dean, but dirty and greasy and worn out.

Dean downs the last of the shots lined up in front of him and slides off the barstool. He feels heavy, his head soggy, like it’s underwater. “Dean?” Ross’s hand grabs him, steadies him, “You okay?”

Dean grunts and pushes him off. “Christ, Ross, I’m _fine_ ,” his voice sounds whiny in his ears. “Just. Imma go bathroom,” he mumbles, stumbling away from his younger brother.

Ross follows him, course he does, and Dean is too uncaring and too drunk to stop him from shouldering him into one of the stalls. Ross pushes him against the wall and the partition rattles. Jesus – this again - does his little brother have a _thing_ about the stalls in men’s bathrooms?

Ross doesn’t say anything, but moves in, sliding his palm down the front of Dean’s shirt, slow and sure, until he's spreading his fingers to cup Dean’s balls and soft, flaccid cock through the denim. Dean holds his breath, stares into his brother’s face. Ross’s eyes are wide open just like last time, mouth and lips wet, breath sour as he moves in for the kiss.

Dean wrenches his head away and shakes it vigorously, “Nuh uh, no fuckin’ way, man.”

Ross stalls, pouting, any other time it would be funny, hell, it _is_ kinda funny.

“I wanna kiss you, let me kiss you,” he babbles.

“You wanna kiss me, then you can suck my cock,” says Dean. Ross hesitates, and Dean smirks nastily. “You’ve done it before, haven’t you, little bro?” Ross goes quiet, bites his lip. “Ohhh, so you haven’t? Huh.”

“Just cause I ain’t a fag like you or Sam!”

Dean shrugs, still with the infuriating smirk. “Where I’m standing sure doesn’t look that way.”

Ross jerks his hand away, hesitating, letting it hover between them. Dean reaches down, wraps his fingers around his wrist.

“Hey, this is what it is, dude,” he says flatly.

Ross presses his lips together, ducks his head, looking as if he’s trying to keep from crying. Dean feels a wave of affection hit him, a sudden press of guilt. “Hey,” he places one hand on the back of Ross’s head, pulling him in, “hey, you alright?”

Ross shudders and crowds against Dean, wrapping his arms around him, hugging him in that incoherent, sloppy way of drunk people. But it’s also Ross just being Ross, taking the opportunity to nuzzle at Dean’s neck with wet insistent lips and needy, God, always so fucking demanding. Dean swallows and runs his hand over his brother’s short hair. He can feel Ross’s erection pressing into his hip and he’s getting hard from it, just the pressure from Ross, the closeness of his body, and maybe he’s just one kinky fucker because this… the way Ross just _needs_ him so much, it's powerful.

Dean groans, pulls Rosshim closer, letting his head thump back against the stall, a carbon copy of their last time. Ross tilts his head back to look up at him with gleaming eyes. He's already over his momentary hesitation, all good now, cocky little brother back in play.

“You still want me to." He makes a suck you off gesture with his hand.

Dean hesitates; Ross is staring at him, waiting for him to speak. He’s obviously ready to go through with it. Ross has never given head before, but he wants to start now, make him the first. That's fucked up. Dean knows that Ross has been around, he's done all sorts of shit since he was fourteen years old – younger than both him and Sam, little punk – but he hasn’t given head, and just like Sammy, he wants to start with his big brother.

“Wait,” says Dean.

“What?”

Dean opens his mouth, looks into his brother’s eyes, dark now and impatient.

“Dean, c’mon. You said you wanted it.”

“No I didn’t.”

“ _Yeah._ You did. You want me to suck you and I’ll do it, I don’t mind. I want to fuckin’ do it.”

Dean grunts and pushes him away, both hands on Ross’s shoulders. “You’re drunk,” he tells him.

“So are you!”

Dean just narrows his eyes and shoulders him aside. “I'm not doing this." 

“You’d fuckin’ do it soon enough if I were Sam!”

“This has nothing to do with Sam.”

“The fuck it doesn’t! You’re feeling guilty 'cause you’re worried he might find out. Don’t. I ain’t gonna fuckin’ tell him. And you ain’t, so what’s the issue here?” Ross fists his fingers in Dean’s collar, preventing him from leaving.

“The issue? The _issue_?” repeats Dean, pushing Ross’s hand away. “The issue is that you’re my kid brother and I always swore to protect you – that’s what I do, and this – this ain’t that. This is the opposite of that!” Ross starts to open his mouth to retort and Dean silences him. “And before you say it, this has got _nothing_ to do with Sam. God, Ross, can you imagine what Dad would say?”

“He’d kill you,” says Ross.

“Yeah.” Dean sighs, presses his knuckles into the corners of his eyes.

He feels improbably sober, head still hot and muggy, not quite with it. But there’s a weird sort of clarity, as if he’s seeing himself from outside – jammed up against Ross in this nasty, little men’s room stall, about to let his youngest brother suck him off because he’s too fucking drunk and too goddamned weak to say no. There’s another pause, awkward and loaded, Ross is staring at the wall, deliberately not looking at him, mouth trembling and eyes glassy. This time when Dean moves past him to unlock the door, Ross doesn’t try to stop him.

Dean waits by the car, smoking under a streetlight, one hand resting proprietarily on the roof. The smooth cold metal under his hand is calming, familiar and steady, comforting. He sees Ross come out the bar, a blur of noise as the door bangs closed behind him. He stands on the porch, lit up for a moment like one of those Hopper prints on the postcards Sammy used to carry around to use as bookmarks. He had a thing about people dog-earing page corners to mark their place, geek that he was. Dean kinda liked those pictures – they were uncomplicated, familiar, maybe not the windmills – those he wasn’t so much into, but the motels and restaurants, late night cafes and gas stations, those bleak, lonely figures in those dull, mundane backgrounds.

He rolls his shoulders irritably. He’s cold out here, waiting for Ross, who’s taking a fucking eternity to cross the parking lot, weaving and drunk. Hell, he’s drunk too, but at least he’s walking straight.

“I ain’t fuckin’ ready to go yet,” slurs Ross when he gets to the car, sprawling and pressing his palms against the passenger side window. “You’re such a fuckin’ buzzkill. Ruin every fuckin’ thing, Dean.” There’s a sulky look on his face that makes him look even younger.

Dean finishes off his cigarette, tosses the smoldering butt to the ground and unlocks the car.

“Okay, man, whatever, but I’m going. You want a ride; get your ass in the car.”

“Fuck you,” Ross slurs. “I’mma go hook up.”

“Fine, you do that.”

Ross stares at him for a moment as if he’s daring him to say something. When Dean doesn’t say a word, Ross flips him off with a disgusted sound and turns to head back to the bar. Dean rolls his eyes and gets inside. He can see Ross in the rearview mirror, stumbling with his head bowed across the parking lot, hands bunched in the pockets of his leather jacket. Dean hesitates, imagining himself getting out the car, forcing Ross into the backseat, getting his drunken ass back to the motel, but he knows Ross, Ross won’t thank him for it, will just be more a bitch than he usually is. Besides, Ross is old enough, kid can look after himself, has done plenty of times before. He’ll probably hook up, score with some hot chick, and that’s fine by Dean, 'cause Ross needs it - the release, get his mind over this sudden obsession he's got with Dean. 

Dean can go back to the motel room without Ross and see Sam. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and glances back in the mirror again; Ross has vanished into the bar, well that’s good, it’s right, it’s what he needs. Dean pushes aside the feelings of guilt, and starts the engine.

 

 

“What did you do with the kid?” asks Sam when Dean comes in. He’s sitting up on his bed, watching TV, bag of popcorn on his lap and bottle of beer nestled between his thighs.

“What you watching?" Dean asks, ignoring Sam’s question and the twinge of guilt it brings with it.

“Some movie,” shrugs Sam. He tilts the popcorn Dean’s way, “Want some?”

Dean grins, throws off his jacket, toes off his boots and stumbles onto the bed beside him, sprawling onto the padded up pillows. Sam shifts over to make room. He’s wearing an old t-shirt and even older sweatpants, and looks so warm and cozy and beautiful that Dean just wants to curl up into him and be the one taken care of for once, the one without the fucking weight of the world – _of this family_ – on his shoulders. He wants the comfort and familiarity of being with Sam, of being with someone he loves and who loves him back with a clear, blazing, uncomplicated sort of completeness that’s such a relief from the ultra-complicated fucked-up mess that is the rest of his life. He needs Sam to push out the feelings of guilt and wrongness in his head, the memories of that dirty little scene with Ross.

“Don’t get it all over the sheets,” warns Sam when he reaches for a handful of popcorn.

Dean deliberately drops a couple of kernels onto the bed. “Oops.”

“God, you’re so freakin’ immature. Well, you can sleep here. Or maybe Ross can. When he gets back.”

“Little Bro’ll be sleepin’ elsewhere tonight, if you get my drift.”

Sam turns his head to look at him, there’s a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, that fucking dimple. “Yeah?”

Dean nods, chomps on the rest of his popcorn. “Uh-huh. So, uh,” he wipes off his hand on Sam’s t-shirt, letting his fingers linger, pressing down against the hard planes of muscle. “You wanna?”

“Do _you_ wanna?”

“Christ, Sam, course I fuckin’ wanna! I always want to fuck you."

Sam throws aside the bag of popcorn, kernels spilling out across the comforter. He pulls Dean down onto the bed and rolls them over until he’s on top, blanketing Dean with every inch of his enormous body.

“Hey there, baby,” he says with a bright grin, thick stupid hair brushing against Dean’s face.

Dean makes a face at him and hisses out, “Bitch, you are going down!”

Sam raises his eyebrows, meeting the challenge: “Bring it.”

He’s barely done forming the words when Dean flips them, wrestling Sam to the mattress, and grabbing his wrists in each hand to pin him down. Sam wriggles and squirms, trying to buck him off, but makes no headway, because Dean is awesome at this and Dean’s got his ass grinding down with exactly the right kinda friction against Sam’s impressive erection. Sam’s not gonna wanna move now, the squirming and wriggling purely for show.

Just as Dean knew he would, Sam goes still, chest heaving up and down, hair a tousled mess and cheeks pink with exertion.

“Say uncle, Sammy,” he whispers, voice low and teasing.

Sam huffs out a breath, then suddenly, he grins, pure unadulterated evil, and tips them over, those damn long legs of his curling around Dean’s ankles, pushing them off balance and off the bed, spilling with a hard-hitting oomph onto the carpet. The air flies from Dean’s lungs and he struggles for breath, looking around for his brother to exact his revenge. Sam’s sprawled on his back, one bare foot caught and twisted in the sheet where it hangs off the edge of the bed, other foot half under the bed. He turns his head and catches Dean’s eye, giving him that goddamn beautiful grin. Dean feels his guts twist up, all want and horniness and too much fucking affection.

“Hey, c’mere,” he grunts. He props himself up onto one elbow and makes a grab for Sam’s arm, hauling him across the carpet until he’s sprawling over his lap, back to Dean’s chest, Dean’s arms a tight body-bind around him.

He nuzzles his face into the crook of Sam’s neck, hair tickling his nose and lips. Sam smells of popcorn and shampoo and cigarette smoke, and Dean inhales deep, drinks it in.

“You wanna fight some more?”

“Nah,” breathes Sam, “want to have sex with you.”

“Well, we can definitely do that.”

“We got time? Before he gets back, I mean?”

“I don’t care,” Dean says. He tangles his fingers in his brother’s hair, pulls his head to one side, exposing that long, elegant curve of neck. He buries his face into it, breathes in deep. “Let’s do it like this. You ride me like this, reverse cowgirl – sorta. Do it in front of the mirror, be so fuckin’ hot, Sam.”

“No,” says Sam, he turns his head, lips against the side of Dean’s throat, “I want to see you when you fuck me. Want to see your face.”

“Fuck, okay, anything. Just make it soon.”

Sam climbs out of Dean’s lap, holds out a hand to haul Dean to his feet.

They pull off their clothes, hopping and skipping and jumping to tug off socks, slide down pants and toss aside underwear. Once they’re naked, they both hesitate, looking at each other for a cue, as if they can’t remember what comes next.

In the end, Sam suggests the desk chair, pushing it into the middle of the room, covering the stained seat with a towel. Dean (rightly) mocks him for it, though, he’s secretly kinda grateful, the damn thing looks pretty fucking skeezy and that fabric would definitely chafe.He straddles the chair and watches Sam sink to all fours in front of him, pushing Dean away, insisting on making a show as he works his asshole open with those long clever fingers of his, cool predatory glint in his eyes as they rake over Dean, gleam of sweat on the hollow of his throat, cock jutting out from his body at an almost perfect 90’ angle, red and big and fucking _obscene_.

“D’you need any..." he starts to say.

“No, I’m done,” Sam cuts him off impatiently. “Don’t want to wait any longer for this. Been too long, Dean.”

Dean gulps and nods at him, watching with wide eyes as Sam gets to his feet, looming over him, legs either side of Dean’s hips. Sam slides down slowly onto his cock, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes as he starts to breathe in and out, steady and slow, body adjusting to the intrusion.

“Oh my God,” moans Dean.

Sam’s eyes fly open and he smirks, “Good?”

“Fuckin’ amazing, you’re just – God, Sammy, so hot and tight and _Jesus_ – s’like my cock is burning up in there.”

Sam smiles serenely, leans in, drawing him into a long, long kiss. The kiss ends and Dean blinks as he pulls away, staring at Sam, really taking him in. Can this be his Sammy - his lanky kid brother with the sulky mouth – also be this gorgeous freaking Adonis with the slanting, glittering eyes riding his cock?

It’s the first time in almost three years that they’ve done it this way. Oh, he’s fucked other guys in that time, but none of them can compare to this. Nothing is as good as this. Hell, no one else even kisses like Sam, with that intensity and edge-of-the-world passion. Dean pulls away, breathless for a second, then it’s his turn to kiss Sam, his jaw, his chin, his throat. Sam groans, leans back, exposing that gorgeous length of neck, and Dean can’t help himself, he has to do this, he _has_ to mark him. So he sucks, teeth sinking in. This mark will show everyone ( _Ross – Oh God, Ross_ …) His stomach reels, tidal wave of nausea at thte memory.

He stills, frozen by the lurch of memory. “I’m sorry,” he mouths the words, the three meaningless syllables, not daring to speak them aloud, too terrified. 

“Dean, what’s wrong?”

He can hear the breathless concern in Sam’s voice. He can feel Sam's hand on the back of his head, huge fingers spanning his entire skull. Gently, Sam forces his head back, Dean’s mouth coming away from his throat, a shiny spider-thread of saliva from his kiss-flushed lips to the livid purple mark he’s just left on Sam's throat.

“Come back to me,” Sam says quietly. He strokes one finger tenderly over Dean’s cheek. “Want you with me, want you to finish me. I@m so close, Dean.”

Silently, Dean nods, fake grimace of a smile, hand smoothing down his brother’s back, the long, long strip of his spine. He squeezes Sam's ass, pulling him in and moving again, up and down, relentless pumping hips and the incessant thump, thump of his pulse in his head. Sam claims him with a kiss, forceful and rushed, body lifting up and bearing down, up and down and up and down, his freaking perfect ass swallowing Dean’s cock, just fucking right. 

_“Touch me, Dean, please, touch me… Gonna come, please…”_

He wraps his hand around Sam’s erection, squeezes, thumb brushing over the head, feeling Sam shudder. Dean's so close, so fucking close, riding the edge of it. Sam shoots, hot, sticky threads on Dean’s fingers. Two more thrusts of his hips and Dean's next, panting it out into his brother’s mouth.

They don’t move for a minute, maybe two, Sam’s chin resting on Dean’s shoulder, sweaty hair in Dean’s face. Dean lifts his hand, strokes his brother’s hair back from his face, kisses his temple. Sam makes a soft, happy noise and turns his head to kiss Dean’s cheek before he’s leaning back and standing up. A squelchy, sucking slurp as Dean’s cock slides free.

They both look down at Dean’s wilting erection, the condom full of jizz half hanging off his cock.

“Shit, Dean, looks like it nearly came off.”

Dean quirks his lip, looks up at him. “Well, that would've been fun, me fishing around in your asshole all freakin’ night for the goddamn rubber.”

Sam grimaces, “Ugh, _don’t_. Don’t even joke about it.” He leans down, pulls the rest of the condom off Dean’s dick with a sigh, holding it gingerly between two fingers as he pads off to the bathroom.

Dean watches his ass, the slight limp in his brother’s walk causing him a private smirk. He gets off the chair with a grateful exhale, feeling stiff and wrung-out as he leans up against the bathroom door. Sam’s standing over the toilet, watching the bowl intently as he pulls the flush. He looks up at Dean, smiles thoughtfully.

“So, what happened back there?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t bullshit me, Dean; I know something was up with you.”

Dean freezes, looks away from Sam’s probing look.

“Is it Ross?”

He feels his guts start to churn up again, clench of breath in his lungs. He daren’t look up, meet Sam’s gaze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“C’mon, man, I know you. Something’s up with you. Back there, for a moment, you were – it was different – you were different.” Sam pauses, frowns again. “Look, I get it, this shit with Ross – him knowing – it’s gotten to me too. I honestly have no idea what we do now, how we cope with it. But I need you, Dean. I told you that, you gotta be with me.”

“I am with you,” he says quickly, words sneaking out despite himself, and he means it, he completely and utterly means it. It’s the only thing he knows right now, Ross’s voice in his head, _I want what Sammy has, I want you_ , and tonight, his little brother’s furious, impotent glare as he stumbled back to the bar. He looks back at Sam. Sam does know him, far too fucking well, and normally that’s a good thing, when it comes to the awesome sex, Sam knowing all his buttons, Sam having built most of those buttons himself. But on other occasions, like now, when he can practically feel Sam’s eyes looking through his head, rummaging around his brain… well, it's not quite so awesome.

Sam looks at him for a long moment and Dean holds his breath, staring blankly at the floor, the walls, the shower curtain, the goddamn toilet, waiting for Sam to figure it all out: Dean and Ross pressed up together in the stall of a men’s bathroom, Dean's come on Ross’s fingers.

Finally, Sam gives in, drops his gaze and sighs. When he speaks, his voice shakes slightly, “Look, Dean, we’ll be okay, you know. All three of us.”

“Yeah, well, whatever, if you say so.”

“I do,” says Sam, sounding surer. “Now, d’you wanna finish watching that movie?”

It turns out the movie Sam was in the middle of watching is none other than the original John Carpenter _Halloween_

“Dude, this is not just _some movie_ ,” Dean tells him seriously.

They’re curled up on the ruined bed together, sheets up to their lap. Sam’s head is pillowed on his chest, hair tickling his chin. “Okay, whatever you say, Dean.”

“Whatever I say? Sammy, this is a freakin’ classic. And, awesome – it’s up to the last half hour, so we don’t have to watch the boring babysitting crap.” He smiles happily, crunching on some of the remnants of popcorn as they watch Laurie run from Michael.

“I thought he was, like, her brother, or something?” Sam asks, after a moment, reaching for his own handful of popcorn.

Dean snorts, “Nah, not in this movie, that big reveal came in the sequel.”

He can feel Sam’s smile against the side of his face. Sam turns and presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw and he turns his own head, meeting Sam’s lips in a quick kiss.

“Now, quit distracting me and watch the movie,” he says.

Sam chuckles under his breath and nestles back down against him.

Laurie’s hiding in the closet and Dean’s in his happy place, Sam tracing soft, teasing circles over his chest with his fingers, when Ross comes back.

Ross freezes in the doorway, and stares at them, face white and frozen in shock, it’s almost kinda funny.

“Dude, shut the door, it's fucking freezing in here,” Dean says, his voice only slightly shaky.

“Duh, cause you’re both naked,” says Ross, sounding slurred and confused. He comes in, shuts the door behind him, eyes lingering over him and Sam. His expression goes dark and angry. “You’ve been fuckin’,” he says flatly.

Dean’s heart stutters, he glances down at Sam. Sam’s not moving, still sprawled out over Dean, a shameless glint in his eyes as he returns their little brother’s stare. And yeah, Ross is right; they’re both naked and covered in sweat and come and saliva and popcorn crumbs. It's blatantly obvious what they've been doing.

“You left me behind so you could go and fuck him. Fuck – fuck you, Dean!”

“You told me you were gonna hook up.”

“I changed my mind!” Ross pushes himself up off the door, stumbling across the room to fall on the other bed. Dean watches warily, eyes widening as Ross starts to get undressed, pulling off his jacket, toeing off his boots, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt.

“Ross, what are you doing?” says Sam.

“Getting naked, bitchface. What the fuck does it look like?”

Sam’s expression goes comical as he stares at Ross; eyebrows all raised, like, _what the fuck_. “Ross."

“Chill out, Sam,” says Dean. “Why the fuck not? Why don’t we all get naked? Have a naked party.” And he’s not even sure if he’s joking, if he’s just messing with both of them, because this is some screwed up shit. Ross isn’t stopping, he’s still undressing, and what does it say about him and Sam that they still haven’t moved, still sitting there naked and sprawled against each other, John Carpenter’s original awesome score going crazy in the background, while their younger brother strips off in front of them.

Sam’s eyebrows hike up even further, mouth twisting with annoyance. Ross snickers drunkenly, sways as he tugs at his shirt. It’s stuck around his elbows, half-off and half-on, bunched up and trapping him. It’s instinctive for Dean to slide off the bed and go to help him; hardly the first time he’s helped his youngest brother get undressed. It reminds him jarringly of that summer when Ross was eight and he broke his wrist. Dean spent the entire summer looking after him, helping him get dressed, holding him up in the shower with a plastic bag wrapped around his cast, cutting up his food, tying his shoelaces. All those little things he missed out on doing for him when he was really little.

Ross grunts something when he’s finally free of the shirt, going for the buttons on his jeans. He’s staring across the room at Sam with a taunting expression on his face. He’s fucking _baiting_ Sam.

“Dean, are you gonna let him do this?" Sam says. 

“Why not?” shrugs Ross with a fake, drunken grin. His jeans are pooled on the floor around his ankles. He steps out of them, fingers going to the hem of his undershirt. “We’re gonna have a _naked_ party, just like Deano says.” He smirks at Sam. “It’ll be awesome.” He tugs off the shirt and takes a step towards Sam. He’s only wearing his boxers now, tanned, muscled back to Dean, strong surprisingly broad shoulders which confuse Dean for a second, because he doesn’t recognize this Ross. Thick and muscled, a fading tan because Ross is a narcissistic little punk, stripping off to catch some rays whenever there’s a glimpse of the sun, not like Sam in that respect who's always covered up in at least three layers.

Ross spins around and stares at Dean. “You gonna tell him? Tell him what we did?”

Dean’s not sure if he heard right for a moment, struck dumb by the look on Ross’s face. He hesitates, mumbles, “What you talking about, kid?”

Ross’s eyes narrow, “You fuckin’ _know_ what I’m talkin’ about.”

Dean gulps, looks towards Sam. Sam’s watching him guardedly, a set to his mouth that makes him feel sick. 

"Sammy."

Before he gets the chance to say anything further, Sam’s face hardens and he dives off the bed and tackles Ross, bringing him down to the floor in a tangle of flailing limbs. The two of them are practically naked, actually Sam _is_ naked and Ross almost there, and they're wrestling on the floor, just like they used to do when they were teenagers. Ross and Sammy had fought almost every night back then, like some messed-up bedtime ritual. But now they’re both _supposed_ to be adults, and it’s just… disturbing and surreal and…

….kinda… sorta…

…really fucking hot…

Ross seems to be winning. Dean would always put his money on Ross. Sam is still out of practice, and Ross is a mean little bitch, Ross fights dirty, Ross fights to win. Ross took every lesson from Dad to heart and built it into his own credo. Ross has Sam pinned beneath him, straddling his chest, shuddering for breath, cursing and panting and leaning over Sam so close that their lips are nearly touching, Sammy bucking underneath him and... wait a second... 

…Sammy’s getting hard.

Dean's eyes widen, half-disbelief, half-arousal and he snorts, “Jesus, get a room already.”

Ross’s head snaps back to look at him with a startled, incredulous look that gives Sam the chance to push him off and send him sprawling against one of the beds.

“--Fuck you, we weren’t-–“

“--Fuck off, Dean, what the fuck-–“

Both of them in unison, identical, growling voices.

“Seemed to be enjoying it, where I was sitting. Both of you.”

He gives Sam’s half-hard cock a pointed look, mouth watering already, because _God_ , he loves Sam’s cock. , and seeing Sam like this all sweaty and hot and blushing and flustered. This is too good to miss. Dean slides onto the floor, eyes only for Sam’s flushed face. Sam's bangs are plastered to his forehead with sweat, a hint of moisture on his upper lip that Dean just wants to lick off. He pushes Sam backwards against the bed and straddles him, his bare ass riding against Sam’s sweat-hot skin. Sam chokes on a breath and speaks in a jagged sort of voice.

“Dean, what the hell are you_–“

He cuts him off, leans in to swipe his tongue over his brother’s lip, and _there_ , that bead of sweat, that taste of Sam.

“Shh, Sammy, it’s alright," he says.

He hooks one arm around Sam’s shoulders, fingers threading into his thick, damp hair, massaging his scalp, feeling Sam’s cock swell against his thigh.

He twists his head around to look at Ross. He’s staring at the two of them with a deer in the headlights expression, lip caught between his teeth, a look on his face that reminds Dean suddenly of himself. He never normally thinks about how he and Ross look alike, the startling likeness between Ross and Sam eclipses all other similarities between the three of them, but there are certain features they all share: he and Sam have the same eye color, while Ross’s eyes are darker, but he and Ross have the same nose, while Sam’s is shorter, nostrils more flared. All three of them the same cleft in their chin, the same way of biting on their lips when they’re thinking, the same compact muscled bodies. Hot pieces of ass, all three of them.

He hikes up an eyebrow and says, “You can watch us if you like, kiddo. Jerk off if you want. We don’t mind.”

Sam says nothing, but Dean can hear the breath catch in this back of his throat, and hey, Sam may not be saying anything, but he’s definitely not protesting. He tightens his grip on Dean hips, pulling him in closer, chin hooking proprietarily over Dean’s shoulder.

Ross doesn’t say anything, but swallows thickly. Dean tracing the bobbing of his Adam’s Apple as he gulps and blinks at them.

Okay, so it’s obvious someone’s got to take the lead here, and hey, he is the oldest, so…

“Take your shorts off, Ross,” he commands.

Ross nods dumbly and scrabbles around with his shorts, quick to obey as usual, well-trained little soldier that he is. 

“Good boy,” he says approvingly.

He feels as if they’re on the edge of something, a cliff or a chasm. A chasm also known as Full On Fraternal Incest and Definitely Going To Hell. But, fuck, Dean’s always known there was no way he was making it to heaven. From the moment he looked at Sam and felt that tug in his belly, from the moment he felt Sam’s eyes on him, from the moment he said yes to Sam (God, never mind Ross…) Oh, no way was he ever getting anywhere near the pearly gates.

He turns back to Sam, nuzzles his mouth, letting Sam take him in a kiss. It's so warm and familiar and exhausting when Sam kisses him, so absolute and so right. But this time, there’s something else, a tingling, anticipatory buzz in his gut, the knowledge that it’s not just him and Sam, there’s someone else watching them. They’ve never done this before: never done anything in front of anybody else, never even made out in front of an audience, it wasn’t the sort of thing they ever felt they could do. Obviously, they’ve been missing a pretty big trick here cause _hot damn_ , both of them are hard like fucking diamonds, cocks pressed angry and thick between their bellies. Dean's always known he had an exhibitionist streak, but he can see that this is turning Sam’s crank like that one time Dean let Sam tie him up with Dad’s handcuffs.

Or maybe, it’s because their audience isn’t just anybody, their audience is _Ross_.

Dean groans and pulls away, Sam chasing after his mouth with more sloppy kisses. Dean almost jumps out his skin when he feels the hesitant touch of Ross’s hand on the side of his face. He didn’t even notice Ross move, but _Jesus_ , he forgot how fucking stealthy Littlest Bro can be.

“Dean?” murmurs Ross. His voice is faint and uncertain, lip caught between his teeth. Dean exhales painfully and glances at Sam. Sam’s eyes are wide, hazel almost disappeared, he looks _wrecked_ , eyes darting between him and Ross with a fucking terrifying look on his face.

“Do it, Dean,” he hisses, barest moan of words. “Do it.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He turns his head, puts one hand on the back of Ross’s neck and pulls him into a kiss.

This time is different, and it’s not just because Sam’s there – bare inches from both of them. Ross keeps his eyes open when they kiss. He's greedy and needy and loud, his hands going out to frame Dean’s face. Dean tries to break the kiss, but Ross doesn’t let him go far, breathing out against Dean’s face.

_“Dean…”_

Dean closes his eyes.

 

****

 

Ross can’t really believe that this is happening. His cock is so fucking hard he feels dizzy, like all the blood has gone down there and his brain can’t function anymore, though maybe that’s got something to do with everything he’s drunk tonight, the shots of JD and Beam and SoCo and… well, he can’t really remember much else. He can’t seem to remember anything before opening that door and seeing Dean and Sam fucking naked, all post-coital and disgustingly happy and watching the original John Carpenter’s _Halloween_ , and he fucking loves that movie. He should’ve known.

But they’re making out again, and he knows that he should be, like, totally grossed out about that, because Jesus fuck, _Sammy and Dean are making out_. He used to just not think about it, and when he did, it was like something got trapped in his throat, like he couldn’t breathe, as if he was so completely overwhelmed with that – with what they were doing - that he couldn’t function right. He used to feel hot and burning and ashamed that this was what his family really was… and yet… right now, right the fuck now he’s so fucking turned on, so fucking hard for it. Hard for Dean making out with Sam.

Sam’s hands are huge on Dean: one on his neck, the other his belly. His big fingers glide over Dean’s stomach, running over that line of hair going down to Dean’s cock, so red and swollen. Ross didn’t get to see Dean's cock before in the men’s room, he just felt it, warm and thick and hard as a wooden stake, though way softer and smoother, and totally nothing like how his own cock feels. But both Dean and Sam are naked now and they’re both hard, and Sam’s dick is fucking monstrous, like, _holy shit_. After this, seriously, they should all measure them, because he kinda wants to know exactly how big that damn thing is, and Dean’s too, cause Dean’s cock looks really weirdly like his own cock in this light, and they should totally check up on that.

Sam leans in and bites Dean’s earlobe. Dean honest to God groans like he’s in a freaking porno, which is totally wrong, 'cause that move isn't hot. But then Sam growls out: “My turn now, Dean,” in this total sex voice which has Dean squirming in a way that’s fucking _filthy_ and suddenly Ross wants to see that. Or at least his cock does. But he wants to see what it’s like for someone to lay Dean down and fuck him, to see him completely at someone’s mercy like that. To see him at Sam’s mercy, with his dark hair and his slanted, animal eyes like Ross’s own.

Dean hesitates for a second, then he smirks, and Ross knows that look.

“You gotta do something first, dude.”

Dean gives him a sideways look, using that smug, crooked grin of his that means: I’ve got your back, little bro. Ross’s stomach knots up, like, proper butterflies, like the intense, jittery feeling he gets when he’s cocking his gun doublequickfast because a spirit’s materialized right behind Dean and is about to take him out.

“Suck off Ross,” says Dean.

 _Holy fuck!_ Did Dean just tell Sammy to--

Shit. He never saw that one coming.

“If you want in my ass, you gotta suck off Ross,” repeats Dean.

Sam opens his mouth about to say something, about to protest, eyes getting wide, disbelieving.

Dean touches Sam's face, but turns to look at Ross, tells him, “Trust me, kiddo, you won’t regret it. He’s all kinds of talented with his mouth. Gives head like a fuckin’ vacuum cleaner. I swear to God, you will not regret it.”

Ross is speechless again, mouth opening and closing like a goddamned guppy fish. He turns to look at Sam’s mouth. He’s never really thought about Sam’s mouth before, but man, it’s kinda big. Like his own. They have the same smile, people always say that about them, the wide mouth and straight white teeth and dimples, and is Sam really gonna put that mouth – the mouth that’s like Ross’s own – on Ross'ss dick and swallow his spunk? 

Sam stares back at him, and in that second when their eyes meet, Sam’s expression changes. The confused look vanishes, replaced by something that looks like a challenge, an appraising up and down as Sam’s eyes rake over his body, taking him in, every inch of him, pink bud of Sam’s tongue swooping over his lips, his expression totally: _I fucking dare you.._.

“You game?” says Sam.

And fuck him, there is no fucking way Ross is backing out now, he’s not a freaking pussy. And whatever, a mouth’s a mouth, and Sammy’s mouth is, like, almost totally identical to his own, so it’d only be like he was sucking himself off, which if he could… man, of course he fucking would.

“Are _you_?” he retorts. “Gonna put your pretty mouth on my dick, asshole?”

“Aw, you think my mouth is pretty, little bro?”

“I think it’s pretty,” says Dean in a husky sort of voice that has Sam’s expression going loose and cute, like he’s fucking _melting_ , which one, gross, and two, has no fucking place in a hot-ass, _purely sexual_ brother on brother on brother threesome.

“I can’t fucking wait to see it wrapped around his cock,” adds Dean.

That gets Sam moving, breaking away from Dean with a snarl and, fucking pouncing on Ross. He pushes Ross down to the floor and _holy mother of Jesus_ , warm, wet heat around his cock, God, Dean so wasn’t lying when he said Sam was good at this.

Ross isn't sure who’s making all the embarrassing noises, because it could be him, only he’s really not thinking straight. Could be Sam, because he’s moaning and groaning and making these sounds that vibrate up and down Ross’s dick, reminding him of this one chick he dated for a while who gave fucking quality blowjobs. She told him her secret was to hum _Bohemian Rhapsody_ while she was doing it, and yeah, she was _good_ , but this… _motherfucking Jesus_ , Sam’s, like, doing the entire hits of Queen down there. Or, it could be Dean making those noises, because Dean’s breathing heavily, groaning out shit like: _so fucking hot, so hot, your mouth, Sammy_ , and that’s freaking annoying because there’s two of them here, him and Sam, not just Sam on his own.

 _Oh God, oh God_ , Sam is licking at the slit and fucking fingering his balls . Sam is honest to God fingering Ross's balls. There must be disconnect somewhere in Ross's head because all he can think about is that one time when he was in fourth grade, or maybe fifth, and he and Sam had a fight in the school yard and he kicked Sam in the balls, and the teachers told him: _You don’t do that, that’s just not done, Ross, boys don’t kick other boys in the balls_ , and he never got that, because why make those shitty rules, a fight’s a fight and he’s in it to win it.

He practically jumps out his fucking skin when someone grabs onto him from behind. Sam moans in protest, scowling up at him from under his stupid sweaty hair, mouth still around Ross’s cock. Which, God, this is so freaking bizarre, Sam down there in front of him, honest to Jesus _sucking his cock_. Ross is definitely still awake right? This isn't a dream or a drunken hallucination. And, ohhhh, that’s Dean behind him, hell, it’s gotta be Dean, he’s the only other fucker in the room, the only one without a cock stuffed down his throat who isn’t himself. Dean wraps his arms around him from behind, chest warm and damp and firm against Ross’s back.

“Hey, let it go, Ross, let it go, little brother, so fuckin’ hot,” Dean whispers into his ear, and Ross just - he just does what Dean says because man… It. Feels. So. Fucking. Good.

It’s like a whole body orgasm, like a mad out of the body experience, like he’s left his body for a split second, up there somewhere, while the only thing keeping the rest of him grounded is Dean. His big brother’s arms around him, holding him tight, whispering shit in his ear, close and like when he was six years old and he had that nightmare for the first time – the one he used to get all the freaking time – but Dad had gone off, left the three of them on their own for the first time in Ross’s experience, 'cause he’d only been with them a couple of weeks by then. He didn’t know what to think when this big boy, who said he was his brother, crawled into bed with him, pulled him into his arms and started mumbling strange comforting words in his ear.

God, it’s so fucking _weird_ to think of that right now when he’s coming back from an orgasm that Sam has wrung out of him. But he can’t be expected to think straight about anything right now 'cause Dean’s pressed up against his back, hard cock jammed into the small of Ross’s back. And Sam – God, Sam’s kneeling in front of him, pushing his hair out of his eyes and blinking stupid and smug up at Ross – totally his _I told you so, I was right, so fuck you, Ross,_ smile, tongue slicking over his lips and gathering up the stray droplets of Ross’s spunk.

He breathes out, shaking as he twists around in Dean’s arms. Dean’s face is really fucking close and Ross doesn’t think, he just puts his hands on Dean’s cheeks and pulls him into a kiss. Dean goes with it, and when he finally pulls away, he’s grinning at Ross.

“See? Told you he was good.”

“It was all right,” he says with a shrug.

“Bullshit, you’re such a liar,” says Sam. “That was the most awesome blowjob of your life.”

Ross curls his lip at Sam, but Sam’s already getting onto his knees to crawl over towards Dean. He pulls Dean away from Ross and into his own arms which… possessive much, Sammy? They’re making out already, and it’s totally like Ross isn’t there, like the very first time he caught them at it, when they thought he was passed out, dumb little brother who doesn’t matter, who’s been useful and all that, but now he’s gotten his, then he can go fuck himself, because they’re going to fuck each other. 

Bastards.

This wasn't even his idea. This was all Dean and his fucked up brain. Did Dad drop Dean on his head when he was a kid, because, man, that would explain so much. And, okay, yeah, he was the one who started it with Dean, like, all that shit in the gay club, that was him going kinda crazy, but it was Dean wasn't protesting, not really.

He shuffles to his feet, he’s feeling unsteady, and yeah, understandable, cause he was, _is_ wasted, all that freaking whisky. And then there’s the sex bit where Sam practically sucked his brain out via his dick with that goddamn awesome blowjob and orgasms always makes him wanna collapse and pass out, anyway, so -

“Where do you think you’re goin’?”

He stops half way across the room and spins around. Dean’s looking at him expectantly from over Sam’s shoulder, all glassy eyed and sweaty and flushed. Ross feels a stirring in his belly, a familiar sort of lustful stirring which… enough already, because he can’t keep on doing this, it’s wrong and fucked-up, and oh God, _what would Dad say?_

“Get back here, Ross.”

He turns around and obeys. Course he fucking obeys, it’s what he’s good at. He walks back towards them and kneels down beside them.

“Good boy,” says Dean.

 

***

 

 

Ross wakes up slowly. He’s on top of the comforter on one of the beds, his head is thumping, fucking hangover from Hell, mouth dry like dog’s breath and he’s got goddamned popcorn kernels stuck to his skin. He rolls onto his side. Dean and Sam are lying on the other bed, on top of the comforter, both naked, and both completely dead to the world. Sam’s curled up against Dean, head in the crook of Dean’s arm, one arm slung over Dean’s chest and one leg over Dean’s thighs, possessive sonofabitch even when he sleeps.

They must’ve carried him to bed when he passed out, then probably carried on without him, the fuckers. Though, honestly, what the fuck does he expect? They’ve been doing this for years, they, like, practically grew up having sex with each other.

He gets up. His legs feel surprisingly steady, his head still pounding, which is completely unfair. He stomps over the piles of crap all over the carpet, (man, the room looks about as wrecked as he feels), and heads for the shower. He stands under the shower and thinks that maybe it should be hotter. Isn’t this what people do when they’re trying to wash all their sins away? Scorching hot showers, like some kinda penance? Whatever, it ain’t fucking easy in this piece of shit motel though, water’s just about hitting lukewarm, and, anyway: why should he have a scorching hot shower, what’s he got to feel ashamed about?

How about the fact he just had a threesome with both his older brothers last night? That’s shameful, that’s freaking disgusting. That’s _incest_ , for fuck’s sake. He used to feel sick just thinking about Dean and Sam doing it.

So what, though? Dean and Sam _have_ been doing it for years, and they seemed to think it was, like, okay to involve him too. Dean must’ve thought it was okay, because if he didn’t, then they wouldn’t’ve done it. Dean’s always been way stricter than most older brothers needed to be. Dean’s always looked out for him; he wouldn’t let him do something truly wrong.

Anyway, they’re different, they’re not like normal people, they’re better than normal people, they’re hunters, heroes. They know the truth about what’s really out there and they’re tough enough to do shit about it. What they do is good, they dedicate their lives to saving people, killing evil shit, like Batman or Spiderman. And okay, so last night, what they did was wrong, like, illegal, according to society and all that shit, but so freaking what? 

He knows he should be freaking out way more about this. The first time he saw Dean and Sam together, it felt like the world was ending, like their entire family was a lie and that Sam and Dean were trying to get away from them. It was like their lives together had been pulled apart into little bits and pieces, like the beginning of the old Superman movie when Marlon Brando sends Zod and the other two villains into space in those bits of glass. Dean and Sam were in one bit of glass together, and he was in another separate piece.

But it’s been so long. He was fifteen when he found out about Dean and Sam, he’s twenty one now, gonna be twenty two in a few months. He’s lived with the secret so long. Knowing about Dean and Sam and their goddamn freakshow of a relationship has been part of his life. It's made him into the person he is right now, and maybe, that means that it’s, like, rotted out part of him, like his moral compass, like with drug addicts who start on something soft, then get into fucking crystal or heroin, only replace drug addiction with incest and you’ve got it.

Anyway, whatever, Sam and Dean _have_ been doing it for years and they’ve been getting away with it for years. Even Dad - who knows everything and maybe he knew about them, maybe he didn’t, Ross honestly has no fucking clue on that – even he never did anything about it. As for society, or, huh, God, well, he sure as hell ain’t sending down any freaking thunderbolts any time soon.

When he gets out the bathroom, Sam and Dean still haven’t moved in their post-sex comas. He gets dressed, taking Dean’s last clean pair of boxer briefs, and goes outside with the pack of cigarettes he stole from some guy’s back pocket last night. The first drag is a head-rush, making him wince and squeeze his eyes closed, but it gets better after that, until it’s waking him up and keeping him clear headed.

He’s not gonna fucking angst about what went down last night, that’s so not his way. He’s just gonna get on with it. It’s what he’s done his entire life, it’s what he knows. His brothers can freak out and look at him strange and do whatever the fuck they want, he’s cool with it. It happened, they can’t undo it. They need to get the fuck over themselves and get on with it. He’s always been good at concentrating on what mattered, blotting out what didn’t.

When Dad first stole him away, made him one of them, he figured out pretty soon after meeting his brothers, that Dean was the one who mattered, and that it was Dean he had to get to like him. When he’d been at the foster homes and in the big care homes, he’d always sit back for a bit, figure out who was important and who he needed on his side. Living with loads of other kids like that was all about sides. He’d figured out that before he’d even turned four. But with Dean he didn’t need to try, Dean seemed to already want to be on his side. Dad had told Dean to look out for his new kid brother and that seemed to be enough for Dean.

Dean loves him, he knows that in the same way he knows his own name, and maybe, despite everything, Sam loves him, too. Sam, after all, did give him one of the best, if not _the_ best blowjob of his life, and well, it’s kinda hard to resent him after that truly mind-blowing experience. He’s not stupid enough to confuse sex with love, he’s had enough one night stands to know that. Sam’s totally gay, so sucking some guy off is hardly gonna be a hardship for him, and Ross is hot like burning and has a goddamn beautiful dick, so really, it was kinda like he was the one doing Sam a favor. But he _was_ part of something last night, for that one night, they let him in. He’s not sure if it’s gonna be repeated or even if he wants it to be, but there’s a part of him that feels better for it. Definitely less alone. Hell, he doesn’t know, he’s not good at this self-analysis shit, but whatever, he definitely feels as if something’s changed, and for once, that something feels like it could be good rather than bad.

 


	11. Chapter 11

What happens next makes Ross believe that maybe there is something to the bad-shit-you’ve-done-coming-back-to-bite-you-on-the-ass karma crap. He’s seen enough in his life to believe most things. Well, not God or angels or anything "religious" like that, though demons exist, he knows that. But karma, hell, no, he’s never believed in that crap. He tends to believe in the “shit happens” school of thought, like, it doesn’t matter what the fuck you do – screwing around with _both_ your big brothers in an incestuous threesome, or acting like the best boy scout in the goddamn troupe – shit still happens.

But maybe he’s wrong, and maybe the whole karma bullshit is why he’s waking up absolutely freezing cold, his head and ankle throbbing, listening to Sam hissing his name, trying and failing to hide the shit-scared tone in his voice.

_"Ross! Ross! Wake up, dude! Ross!"_

"Ughghgh," he groans, or something that sounds like that. There's a thick dark thumping in his head, and his mouth feels like he's swallowed a handful of sand. He's groggy and he hurts all over. It's not, like, totally unusual for him to wake up like this with Dean, or Dad, or even Sam, leaning over him sounding worried, his head hurting like a bitch, but this time feels different.

_"Ross!”_

"Ughhh, Sammy?"

"Shit! Thank God!" Sam breathes out. His voice is coming from somewhere behind Ross, he doesn’t sound close, but he’s not too far away either. "God, I thought." Sam stops and heaves out a breath, like, way to be dramatic, bro. Ross would roll his eyes if his head wasn’t aching so goddamn much. He can picture the look Sam must have on his face right now, the way his tongue will be licking over his lips, eyes all squinty. It’s frustrating as hell that his head feels too heavy to move, so he can’t see Sam.

"Where are we?" he asks.

"I don't know," says Sam. "Do you feel okay? Does it hurt? They really got you, man. They hit you on the head. Shit, I was worried."

He feels a bit crappy then, because goddamn him, Sam does sound genuinely concerned. This means that he must’ve really taken that blow to the head, because Sam’s a Winchester and they’re used to getting beat up and shrugging off their injuries, so for Sammy to be worried about an injury, then both their shits must be up the fucking creek.

“Where’s Dean?” he croaks out.

“They didn’t get him,” says Sam, “he stayed in the bar, remember? We went out and Dean stayed back, he was finishing up that game of darts. Shit, d’you not remember?”

“Uh, I don’t know.”

It’s a big blank his memory: a bar, a game of darts? Yeah, maybe, but that’s something that they do all the time, so, not really helping. He tries to lift his hands, they feel heavy, fuzzy, uncoordinated, and that’s when the fear starts, flash of terror that, _sonofabitch_ , what if this _is_ it, what if he really can't move, what if he's crippled for life? He knows about concussion, he's had enough of them to know, but this could be worse than concussion, head fracture, a lump, bleeding on his brain? Where the fuck is Dean when you need him? Where is Dad?

The thought of Dad calms him, as if he can really hear his father’s voice in his head, laying down one of his many super-important lessons: _whatever the situation, wherever you are, it can be fixed, you just got to know what to do. First, know your surroundings, check out the lay of the land, you can't do anything if you don't know what's there…_

Okay, okay, he can do that, his eyes and ears are working at least.

He's in a cage, bars all around him, and a concrete floor below him, and he's cold, _Jesus_ , he's fucking cold. So they have to be in a barn, or an outhouse, somewhere big, maybe a warehouse. There's no heating and that's for damn sure, and what the fuck has happened to his coat? Did they steal his coat? Motherfuckers, he liked that coat.

"What are they? What took us?"

"I'm not sure. I think they're just people." Sam sounds confused, as if he can't quite believe it. "What?" 

"Yeah. Jenkins, the guy we were looking for, he was here before, but they let him out. They opened his cage and I knew something was wrong, I could feel it. I knew it was a trap. But he didn't listen, he ran off and now - well, I'm pretty sure they killed him." Sam swallows, as if waiting for Ross to say something, but what the fuck is he supposed to say to that? Another hunt fuck-up. One less person they _haven’t_ saved.

"I heard him scream I think. At least, I think it was him. I think they hunt people. For fun." Sam's voice trails off and Ross hears him move around again. "Ross, you hit your head. How does it feel?"

How does it feel? Jesus, Sammy, hurts like a fucking bitch is how it feels. But he ain't gonna say that right now, there'll be time for that when they've figured a way out of here.

"It's okay," he lies. "Don't sweat it. What's Dad always saying? Head wounds look way worse than they really are. Right?" Sam doesn't say anything, but Ross can hear him shuffling around and breathing heavily. He must be practically bent in half, the cages are not very tall, maybe about five feet at the most. It would probably be funny if Ross was actually able to turn around and look at him. "Anyway, quit freakin' out," he tells him, "Dean'll find us. Dean always finds us."

Sam exhales again, "Yeah," he says, but he doesn't sound convinced. "Yeah, maybe."

"Course he fuckin’ will," says Ross, and he’s starting to believe it now. "That bar they got us at. I bet they have cameras and shit. He'll track ‘em down, Dean’s awesome at that kinda crap. C'mon, man, it'll be okay. You wanna take a bet on it?"

"Bet on us making it out of here alive? Yeah, that's a swell idea," scoffs Sam. "I really want to bet on us not being hunted to our deaths and horrifically murdered."

"Oh, c’mon, that so won’t happen. Stop being such a fuckin’," he searches for the word, “ _downer_ all the time.” The insult is weak, not up to his usual standard, but the head injury’s got to give him some sort of a pass on that.

"Whatever."

They both go silent, Ross listens to Sam moving around a bit more, sighing and breathing loudly. It’s like Ross can almost hear him angsting and emo-ing out loud. It definitely says something that even while they’re being kept prisoner they’re managing to piss each other off.

“It’s been 24 hours,” says Sam, breaking the silence.

“Huh?”

“You’ve been out for most of it. And I wasn’t going to tell you, but it’s been 24 hours, he should’ve found us by now.” Ross feels his throat go dry at Sam’s words. "These people - cannibals, whatever the hell they are, they're good. They got the jump on _both_ of us. That doesn't happen very often. So you know, I’m not being a downer for the sake of it, I’m just telling you how it is."

“Yeah, well, thanks for that!” 

“You’re welcome,” Sam says. He goes quiet, then heaves out one of his enormous sighs and says, “"Yeah. So, what I’m trying to say, man, is that they're - they're good, and Dean might be. Well, they might've gotten him too."

Sam goes quiet again, not even any sound of him shuffling around. The silence is heavy, magnifying all the nasty, creaking sounds of this horrible cold room and beyond that, sounds of the outside, birds and rain and wind, country type sounds. Ross has always hated the country, it makes him nervous, small and out of place. They’re probably in the middle of nowhere, this place totally like that episode of the X-files with the half-woman under the bed, those inbred hillbillies.

He stops, that kinda thinking's healthy for any of them, way to fucking close to home.

“Ross?” says Sam after a long silence.

“Yeah?”

“There's something I gotta say to you. I want to apologize. To you.”

“Huh? What the fuck for? Not your fault we’re stuck in here.”

Sam laughs weakly, “No, God, course not! But, uh, no, what I meant was… that I wanted to apologize for, well, for everything, I guess. I just realized recently, and I know I should’ve realized it before, but I guess I was just too close to everything." He breaks off for a moment, swallows so goddamn loudly that Ross can almost, like, hear it, even from this far away.

“Dude, you’ve totally lost me. What the fuck you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the way I acted when you first came into our family. I acted like a dick, Ross. I realize now that I was wrong, that I wasn’t fair to you. I mean, it wasn’t your fault and you had just as much right as us to be there, but I was horrible to you. I should’ve been more welcoming. I should've acted more like your brother, more like Dean did, I guess. And, you know, it wasn’t you that I was mad at, not really.”

There’s a long, heavy pause before Ross groans out, “Oh God, Sam, you’re just, like fuckin’ - _God!_ What is wrong with you, man? These could totally be our last moments together, like, _ever_ and you have to go and say all that shit! What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?”

“You’re not supposed to say anything, though it might help if you quit acting like a goddamned drama queen,” Sam retorts bitchily.

“Me? You’re the drama queen in this family,” he scoffs. “You’re the one making it all socially awkward with your big gay apologies. I mean, dude, _c’mon_ , you were, like, a kid? You don’t owe me any fuckin’ reparations. I probably acted like an asshole to you, too.”

“You’re still acting like an asshole,” mutters Sam, though he sounds less pissed, maybe even a little mollified.

“Yeah, right, whatever.”

He would totally be rolling his eyes at this point, if the pain in his head would just go the fuck away. It’s nice and everything that Sammy suddenly wants to be all apologetic for treating him like a leper for most of his goddamn life, but is this the right time for the big apologies?

He can sort of get where Sammy was coming from all those years ago. Sam was the youngest, he’d had Dad and Dean to himself for six years, and then Ross comes along: new smartass little brother with an attitude problem. Ross wasn't exactly a shy and retiring kid, too used to shouting the loudest in order to get noticed, (that was how shit worked in the foster homes, if you didn’t shout then you got forgotten and Ross Winchester was never gonna be forgotten). So he came along and stole Sam’s place as baby of the family, stole Sam’s daddy, and worst of all, stole Sam’s big brother. Of course the irony of the entire situation is that he never really did steal away Sam’s big brother, Dean was always Sam’s before anyone else, still fucking is.

Whatever, that was a long time ago. Maybe with everything that’s gone down over the last few days, they can get past it all, try something else, something that’ll work for all three of them. All four of them when they find Dad again. And he doesn’t know exactly what that thing’s gonna be, but they’ve got to start somewhere and maybe accepting Sam’s lame-ass apology is a way of doing that.

He takes a deep breath and says, “Okay, then, whatever. I accept your apology.”

Sam lets out a noise that sounds like something half-way between a laugh and a snort. 

“Jesus, Ross, you’re just unbelievable sometimes.”

“Hey, I’m still taking that as a compliment.”

“You can take it anyway you want.”

“Whatever,” Ross says breezily. “Look, man, while we’re on this big gay revelations thing, then I gotta fess up. That blowjob you gave me was, like, probably the best blowjob of my life.”

“Thanks. I think?”

“Dude. Own it. Way I look at it; I’m, like, the pathetic one here, the best blowjob I’ve ever gotten in, like, my entire life was from my own brother – now that is seriously fuckin’ pathetic. Right?”

Sam laughs, like, actually properly laughs at that, and Ross feels better despite the goddamn situation they’re in – trapped in cages in an enormous barn, the descendants of _Deliverance_ about to hunt them to their deaths. But they’ll get through this, they always do, they’ve been in worse shit that this. Dean will come get them, Dean always pulls through eventually. Dean would _never_ have let some normal regular guys get the drop on him like they did. Then again, Dean can be a fucking idiot sometimes. But still, Dean’s on his way, he’s gotta be. What the fuck else is he--

He doesn't get to finish that thought because everything starts fading away again, the throbbing in his head getting harder, eyes falling shut as he passes out. Again.

 

***

 

 

The second time he wakes up he’s in a hospital bed. He can tell that even before he manages to open his eyes. It’s something to do with the disinfectant smell, his clammy feeling skin and the hospital-type sounds around him. God, he hates hospitals, though he has to admit that it’s still better than waking up on an ice-cold concrete floor in a freaking cage, so, yeah, he’ll take what he can get.

Dean’s looming over him looking blurry and like total shit. He blinks again, bringing Dean slowly into focus, making him look more real and more solid, though still like total shit.

He wets his lips, croaks out, “You look like shit,” because Dean needs to know this.

Dean does that corny eyebrow raise thing and looks like he’s trying not to smile. He’s got a nasty looking cut with butterfly stitches through one of his eyebrows, a couple of grazes on his cheek like someone’s used his face as a cheese-grater, and his mouth is all swollen and purple.

“Nice to see you, too,” says Dean, but he’s still doing that trying-not-to-smile thing, so things have got to be okay.

Ross swallows and it’s horrible, all dry and painful and his lips feel like they need a whole stick of chapstick, _and_ he’s really fucking hungry. He can’t remember the last time he actually ate anything. He doesn’t even know how long he’s been out.

“What happened? Where’s Sam? Is he okay?”

“He’s fine,” answers Dean quickly. “He, uh… Ross, don’t you remember anything that happened?” He looks at him closely, that concerned look back on his face again.

Ross frowns, tries to think. What does he remember? Well, they were taken prisoner, fucking _kidnapped_ of all the embarrassing shit. Him and Sammy. Locked in cages. “They put us in cages. Did you rescue us?” 

Dean’s mouth crooks and he does the dumb eyebrow thing again, “Course I did. Who else was gonna save your worthless asses?”

Ross tries to snort but that hurts even more than the swallowing, so he reaches for the water on the nightstand. Dean’s there straight away of course, bending the cup towards him along with the freaking straw, like he’s a goddamn kid, but it’s a helluva lot better than sipping it and spilling it all over his face, so, whatever, he can deal. The water tastes totally gross and it’s warm, too, but despite all that, it still feels unbelievably awesome going down his throat.

“Man, I’m thirsty,” he breathes out when he’s finally done.

Dean snorts, says, “Well, Sammy’s gone to get some food, he’ll probably pick us up some sodas too.”

“Great. I want a vanilla milkshake. Text him and tell him to get me a vanilla milkshake,” he orders.

Dean rolls his eyes, but he’s still doing that half-smiling thing when he takes out his phone and starts to text.

“And some fries – like a double portion at least. And a burger, like, the biggest they got. I’m fuckin’ starving, dude. Can’t remember the last time I ate anything.”

Dean looks up from his texting and focuses in on him. “Nearly two days. We ate in the bar before those motherfuckers grabbed you.”

“Oh, well, no freakin’ wonder then! Tell him to hurry!”

Dean ignores him this time, just goes back to his painstaking texting. Dean kinda sucks at that sorta shit. Sure, he’s good with cars and mechanics and building stuff, but he’s freaking useless with the laptop or even his goddamn cell. Sam’s always bitching at him about clogging up the hard-drive with bad porn and viruses, and for once, Ross is on Sam’s side. Dean’s a total menace, and it’s not like the porn he downloads is even any good, all cheesy gay stuff.

“So, what happened? How did we get out?”

“This lady cop helped me out. Turned out those freaks had snatched her brother years ago. Anyway, she and Sammy took 'em all on, fuckin’ wasted the bastards while I was dragging your ass outta there.”

Ross frowns. “Sam said they were people. Like, real people, humans?”

Dean pauses and looks up from his phone, eyebrows coming together, that crease between them. “Yeah, people, dude,” he says. “Of all the fucked-up shit we see – and that’s people.”

“Yeah,” Ross nods. He closes his eyes for a moment, feeling suddenly tired, the pillow under his head feels unbelievably welcoming right now. His head is still hurting, but it’s a faint, dulled sort of ache. Obviously they’ve got him on some good stuff.

“What happens to people to make them like that?” says Dean after a while, “You know, do they have bad childhoods? That old sonofabitch – the father – d’you think his daddy just touched him the wrong way?”

He opens his eyes slowly and gives Dean a long look. He’s finally finished texting, (and that was fucking slow, even at Dean-speed), and is staring down at his closed phone, deliberately not looking at Ross.

“What're you trying to say, Dean?”

“Oh, man, I don’t fuckin’ know.”

“Yeah, you fuckin’ do.”

Dean flinches for a second; flicking his eyes Ross’s way before trying to shrug, swallowing. And man, these are like all Dean’s tells.

“This is about you and Sam, isn’t it?” he says.

“You forget to include yourself in that, kiddo,” says Dean in a flat voice, “Sam ain’t the only brother I’ve screwed around with. Not now.” He laughs in a hollow, fake sort of way that makes Ross feel sick. He thinks about kissing Dean, about leaning up out of this hospital bed, wrapping his fingers around Dean’s skull and biting the edge of his mouth where it’s all bruised and beaten-up.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says finally. “What happened with all of us, I wanted it too, you know. You weren’t, like, taking advantage.”

Dean sighs again, “You know you don’t have to pretend with me. Especially now.” He laughs, and it’s all bitter and nasty sounding and Ross just hates that sound so much. “No more secrets anymore. Never really was a secret anyway.”

Ross somehow doubts that, because if there’s one thing he’s pretty sure of, it’s that his family loves secrets. 

“Fuck’s sake, Dean, I’m not making this shit up! I don’t regret it,” he bursts out, and yeah, as he says it, he realizes that he doesn’t. He doesn’t regret what they did. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care what other people think and he doesn’t care that they’ve committed some sort of so-called horrible sin. He wanted Dean, he still wants Dean, and at that time, he wanted Sam too, or at least Sam’s mouth, because _fuck_ , like he admitted to Sam, best blowjob ever.

“God, I can’t…” says Dean bitterly. “Jesus, it’s just so fucked up. I can’t believe I let it get like this. If Dad ever found out."

Ross flinches at that, because if there is one thing he does care about it's Dad finding out. But Dad’s not here, Dad’s off in California or wherever the fuck he is now, and Dad doesn’t want them around.

“He won’t,” he says. “Like, who’s gonna tell him? Sammy? No fuckin’ way. That would involve them actually having a conversation – which – _sooo_ ain’t gonna happen. And I definitely won't say anything, so that leaves you.”

Dean says nothing but exhales heavily. He hadn’t noticed before but Dean looks battered and beaten down, and it’s not just the hunt, not just the bruises and cuts and scrapes on his face, the stubble and big dark bags under his eyes. It’s way more than that.

He licks his sore, dry lips and tries for a more sympathetic, understanding tone, something to try and take that horrible, despairing look off Dean’s face. He can’t stand seeing Dean like that, his big brother isn’t meant to look like that.

“C’mon, Dean, you gotta get over it. You gotta stop dwelling on shit all the time. It happened, whatever, deal with it.” Okay, so that wasn’t so much with the sympathy but more the tough love, but, hell, when has their family ever dealt in sympathy? They’re all about tough love, with an emphasis on the tough part, and it’s always worked for them in the past. Dean doesn’t say anything, though, just keeps staring down at his hands.

“You know, Dean, if I had my way, that time – it wouldn’t be the only one. If I had my way then I’d wanna do it again – fuck, I _do_ wanna do it again. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, 'cause, you know, I do get that this shit is way fucked up. But I have all these feelings now, like I wanna touch you and make out with you and do all that shit all of us did together with you. You and me. Or... maybe, if you don’t wanna do that then I’d be cool with Sammy being there too, you know, like, with us.”

He swallows awkwardly, really aware of Dean beside him, Dean so close, the words just hanging there, between them. And the thing is he can’t really believe that he’s just admitted all that shit out loud, but this is Dean, and Dean’s always been the one he’s told stuff to, the one he’s shared everything with, the one who taught him about The Facts of Life when he was ten years, the one who told him how to jerk off. So, this is, like, totally nothing new, nothing different to that at all, and that means that it makes zero fucking sense that his heart’s hammering so fucking fast right now, skin all weird and tingly, like he’s actually nervous.

Dean gives him a look then he lets out a long breath. “Jesus, Ross, you are one fucked up kid.”

“Right back at ya."

That has Dean rolling his eyes, trying to smirk at him, though it’s pretty much half-hearted, not real, just Dean pretending for his benefit. Dean should know that he's been able to see through that shit for years. He suddenly wishes he hadn’t said anything 'cause it’s gone all quiet and tense again and he hates that, he really fucking hates it. Is it gonna be always like this between them? Dean all the time all awkward and quiet and pretending, while he’s sitting there all nervous with this damn fucking itch in his pants?

Things shouldn’t be uncomfortable between him and Dean, they never used to be before, when Sam was gone away at college and it was just him and Dean most of the time, Dad occasionally joining them. Things weren’t strange then, things were normal, and he was happy and he never looked at Dean and felt this weird longing feeling in his chest and his dick never used to get hard over him. 

He sighs irritably and tugs on Dean’s sleeve.

“What?”

“I want a cigarette.”

"This is a hospital.”

“Duh, yeah, I did notice that. No, I mean, can you, like, wheel me outside or something – go somewhere where I _can_ have one?”

After a lot of bitching and moaning under his breath and out loud, Dean disappears to track down a wheelchair while Ross pulls on some pants and Sam’s hoodie lying discarded on a chair.

Dean wheels him out in silence and they squat under a flimsy roof in one of the designated smoking areas, Ross in his wheelchair and Dean leaning against the brick wall next to him. Ross cranes his head to one side to look up at him. “You know you could just make things easier and agree with me? I bet Sammy would be on my side, he was all over the threesome shit.”

Dean huffs out a breath and says nothing.

Ross sighs, “I don’t get you. You and Sam have been screwing around for years, man! Why does it make it so terrible if I get involved too? I’m your brother too, we’re all brothers, we’re family, we do stuff together, like what Dad used to say: only thing you can count on is family.”

“I don’t think Dad was talking about gay incest,” Dean says.

“Maybe not,” he shrugs. “But, whatever. Look, we ain’t like other people--“

“Yeah, and those hillbilly freaks that took you and Sam weren’t like other people either,” Dean interrupts.

Ross freezes with his mouth open, and… wait a fucking minute: what the fuck? How can Dean even compare them with freaks like that? And yeah, okay, he does get that wanting to have sex with your brother is not fucking normal, he _does_ get that. But those hillbilly freaks were monsters. They hunted people; they killed and hunted and most likely ate people… for kicks.

“Aw, man, what the fuck ever. You know, you can keep your goddamn angst and bullshit, Dean. I’m all like - they _hunt_ people for kicks, you stupid prick! And they probably eat them! How can you even compare us with that? We _save_ people!" he bites the words off as he throws his butt to the ground by his chair, watching it smolder pathetically on the damp concrete.

“You finished?” grits out Dean.

“Yeah, take me back inside.”

The journey back up to his room is even more awkward than the journey out. Dean all grim-faced and silent, not meeting his eyes. He leaves Ross in the room and stalks off without even telling him where he’s going.

“Fuck you, too!” Ross shouts at the door as it closes behind Dean.

 

 

***

 

 

Three days later, no permanent damage to his brain, except, you know, what’s already there, haha. His ankle is just a bad sprain that’s already good to walk on. There’s no sign of a hunt and they’re all bored out of their fucking skulls and annoying each other even more than usual. He and Dean have been bickering all day, the fallout from their fight at the hospital still lying in the air between them. Dean's still reluctant to even look at him, like Ross is some dogshit he’s just stepped in, like he can’t stand the sight of him. 

Dean goes out and fetches dinner, burgers and more burgers and pizza, and Ross never thought he’d get sick of fast food but sometimes he just craves some real cooking like meatloaf or roast chicken with vegetables and gravy, just an end to the goddamn grease.

He and Sam sit at the table to eat while Dean lazes on his bed and flicks through the channels on the crappy TV, bitching and whining, and Ross just twists around in his chair and tosses his pizza slice at Dean’s head.

Dean looks so shocked that Ross cracks up, giggling like a freaking maniac, clutching his stomach and laughing so hard that it hurts. Sammy snorts coke through his nose as Dean glares at the two of them and wipes tomato sauce off his face with the back of his hand.

“You little bitch. What the fuck did you do that for?”

He shrugs and ducks as Dean predictably scoops up the handful of mushy pizza and tosses it his way. Dean misses.

“Oh, it’s on!” he shouts and takes a flying leap onto Dean’s bed.

He gets the better of Dean pretty fucking quickly. Crap-ass ankle injury or not, he’s still on top, he’s not letting Dean win this round. Dean can’t treat him like that and get away with it. It’s not fair.

He’s straddling Dean, panting heavily into his brother’s face which is still smeared with pizza sauce. The mattress dips and he feels Sam, every ginormous bit of him, sliding up beside him, shouldering him partly aside and grabbing Dean’s arms, yanking them up above his head where he pins him easily.

Ross sits back on his haunches. He suddenly doesn’t know what to do. He watches in a weird sort of slow motion as Sam lowers his head and kisses Dean.

Dean squirms underneath Sam, getting way into it, pressing up with his hips, Sam still holding his hands up above his head. Sam pulls away with an honest-to-God smacking sound, a thread of saliva hanging from his lips to Dean’s, and that should be gross, because it’s like they’re linked _with drool_ , but it’s not, it’s weirdly hot. Dean chases after Sam’s mouth but Sam smiles in this strange wicked way and turns his head to give Ross a long conspiratorial look from his slanted looking eyes. And _God_ , in that moment it hits Ross hard how much Sam looks like him. It’s something about the dark shape to his eyes, the narrower, crueler look around his mouth, his flushed face… but it’s like looking in the mirror. It's freakishly weird and really, really hot.

Sam puts one of his huge hands on the back of Ross’s head and pushes him forward roughly. “Kiss him,” he growls.

Ross doesn’t hesitate. He leans down and sucks his big brother’s tongue into his mouth. Dean feels soft and pliable underneath them; lying on his back with his arms pinned by one of Sam’s freakishly long arms, face flushed and breath coming hard and garlic-flavored as Ross kisses him.

Sam flicks open Dean’s fly with his long fingers, mouth curled into a smirk when he meets Ross’s eye. They’re in charge right now; he and Sammy have Dean at their mercy. They can do what they want with him and Dean will enjoy it and get off on it, just like he’s doing now. It sends a rush of blood to Ross’s cock, heart speeding up. He’s so fucking hard again as he sees Sam free Dean’s cock from his pants, turning his head so he can watch, mouth still on Dean’s. Dean's dick springs up and it looks kinda funny, funny haha, not funny strange, though, it’s sort of that too. It’s red and big and thick and ready for them. 

Sam gives Ross a long look, flashing him this evil, calculating grin before he lowers his mouth and sucks all of Dean’s dick – like the entire freaking length of it – into his mouth.

Under him, Dean squirms and moans out a long breath, and whoa, Ross can empathize, because he remembers how good that feels – Sam’s fucking mouth – _Christ._ He blinks and makes to pull away from Dean, but Dean’s hand comes out, grips onto his shoulder, pulls him back down.

“Where you going?” Dean hisses out, eyelashes fluttering against Ross’s cheek.

Ross swallows, the taste of Dean’s mouth sliding down the back of his throat. He glances between Sam, whose mouth is slick and shiny, red and stuffed full of their older brother’s dick, and back at Dean whose eyes are burning, green nearly vanished, locked on his face, looking right at _him_.

“Nowhere,” he breathes, “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

 

 

 

The second time Ross caught his brothers together, he was sixteen. They were living in Alabama, about eight miles from the nearest small town, in an ancient farmhouse, so run-down the stone-work was practically crumbling. There was no hot running water, no air conditioning, and torn mosquito nets draped around the sagging four poster beds that looked like they’d been there since the end of the previous century. And despite all that, it was still not the worst place they’d ever lived in.

It was a long, slow Saturday and Dad was home, sleeping on the couch when Ross woke up. He can remember standing over him as he ate his cereal, watching him sleep, hearing his heavy breathing and smelling the slow, sour smell of last night’s whisky curl off of him. The place seemed especially quiet. Dean and Sam had gone AWOL while Ross’d been sleeping off the beers they’d all drunk the night before. Dean had been out with Dad, the two of them playing poker with the guys from the construction crew they were working on, and they’d stumbled home late, Dean waving the money he and Dad had won with a drunken leering grin on his face, bending over to stuff the bills down the back of Ross’s shirt and giggling like a maniac. Dad had been in a good mood, all mellow with drink and winning money, and he’d laughed at Dean and fallen into the couch, reaching over to tousle Ross’s hair while he called to Sam to fetch him the rest of the bottle of Johnnie Walker hidden behind the empty cookie jars in the kitchen cupboards.

Ross tossed the remains of his cereal into the sink, and pulled on his sneakers, heading outside to track down his brothers. Unlike Sam, he’d never been good at entertaining himself, too many years spent among other people to ever be able to cope with being on his own for long, and he didn’t want to hang around the house, waiting for Dad to wake up hung-over and pissed off. Johnnie Walker mornings-after always had a bad effect on him.

He tramped across the dry, flaky grass. The mud was showing through, all powdery and grey, the sun baking the soil and turning the grass into spindly straw. He could feel his eyes start to water already, goddamn allergies, and he squinted the tears away as he vaulted over the broken fences surrounding the end of the farmhouse’s land.

They were paying about $20 a month to stay in this shit-hole. It belonged to a buddy of a pal of a friend of one of Dad’s old marine buddies and he’d let them live there in exchange for scaring off squatters and kids looking for somewhere to party. Ross could’ve told them that there was no freaking place to party in this ass of the world place. He knew that personally, having spent the last three Fridays sitting on the back porch with Sam, drinking Dean’s beer, playing cards and arguing about which radio station they listened to while Dad and Dean hung out with their new construction crew buddies.

He cut through the trees, the well-worn path they took to get to the creek. He totally knew that was where they’d gone, all three of them had hung out there a few nights ago, smoking the pot Ross’d gotten off this flaky kid at school. The pot totally sucked but the place was cool, the way the trees grew around the creek made it secluded, unless you approached from a certain angle, and in the evenings, it was real quiet and spooky.

He heard them before he saw them, part of him already expecting that this was why they’d taken off so damn early, running away from him and Dad like the scared little freaks they were. He stilled, listening hard: the soft slap-pant-gasp of breath and lips, of skin on skin. He felt the breath catch in his throat, pulse hammering hard as he ducked behind a tree, out of sight. Not that they would’ve even noticed him, they were way too fucking engrossed in each other. He peered out cautiously, sweat beading under his shirt, the air clammy and close, even this early in the morning.

They had their clothes off, both of them naked. Sam lying on his back in the dirt and grass, Dean leaned over him, masking Sam’s head and shoulders and chest so just Sam’s legs were showing, knees bent up and toes burrowed into the dirt. Dean’s back was towards Ross, the two of them laying top and tail, as if they were about to go for a freaking 69, except it was only Dean who was performing, his mouth swallowing down Sam’s big red dick.

Ross felt his heart thud still as he watched, his mouth falling open in horror and every muscle in his body gone taut. Jesus Christ, anyone could walk past right the fuck now and see them – see _Dean_ doing this to _Sammy_ , chugging his brother’s cock down his throat like it was a cool refreshing longneck. Ross already knew their big disgusting secret. Whatever they thought, he was on to them, but _this_ was so blatant and so in-your-face.

He couldn’t watch any longer. He couldn't bear watching the moment when Sam lost it and shot his load down Dean’s throat, how they’d probably kiss afterwards, and if Sam would do the same for Dean. Ross turned around and ran off into the woods, away from the house, away from his brothers and his father, away from his entire fucking family.

He didn’t come back until really late that night. Dad was waiting for him, sitting on the front porch, no Dean or Sam in sight. Dad went fucking crazy at him, leaping off of the porch as soon as he saw him come scuffing up the driveway, bellowing and shouting until Ross sobbed out an apology, standing in the middle of the dusty grey driveway, “ _Sorry, Dad, I’m sorry, really fuckin’ sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to..."_ unable to look his father in the face and hating his brothers with the kinda violent hatred that Dad reserved for the sonofabitch that had killed Sam and Dean’s mom.

Dad pulled him roughly into a hug, awkward and huge and sour-smelling, with that Dad version of affection that was squeezing and hair tousling and hard, deadening words that made Ross’s chest ache with love and guilt.

“You can’t do this to me, Ross, my boy,” he murmured. “I can’t lose anyone else, can’t lose you. This family can’t lose anyone else.”

He remembers the thoughts coming hard and fast and over and over: _if you knew, if you only knew what I knew, Dad… if you knew..._ Except he didn’t say that, just clung on harder to his Dad and cried until the front of Dad's shirt was wet and sticky with his tears and snot, while Dad ran his hand through his hair, muttering, "It's okay, it's okay, Ross. It's okay, son, my boy, my Ross."

 

 

 

 

After that second time, _the pizza time_ , as he calls it in his head, Dean and Sam give up on hiding anything from him. Well, he guesses that they still are hiding _some_ shit, but they’re not hiding their relationship, not from him, and hell, these days not even from the rest of the goddamn world. He watches Sam draw close to Dean in bars, put his hand on the small of Dean’s back when Dean’s taking a break from pool. Dean leans into the touch, turns his head and glances up at Sam with _that_ look on his face, the one that only Sammy gets.

He catches them making out in the motel parking lot one morning: Dean pinning Sam against the car with his hands in Sam’s hair, Sam’s hands snaking up under Dean’s tight t-shirt, outlined through the thin grey cotton like they’re in plaster. Ross pauses in the doorway of their motel room, duffle in hand, and watches them. The sun’s coming up over the horizon, spreading white and yellow light over Dean, Sam and the car, reminding him with a wrench of that picture of Dad he took all those years ago at the gas station, the one that’s still in his wallet. Only instead of Dad now, he gets this: Sam and Dean making out against the car, not caring if anyone sees them.

They brush fingers in Wal-Mart, Dean slides his hand into the back pocket of Sam’s jeans while they wait in line to pay, squeezing his ass and smiling up at him. Sam smiles back, slow and sure, and leans down to kiss him, and they don't even care who's watching. 

They don’t care in private either. Ross is sitting on the toilet, flicking through an old copy of Playboy while Dean shaves at the sink. Sam comes in, yawning and reaching around Dean to snatch up his toothbrush (Sam has this thing about cleaning his teeth as soon as he wakes up, like, before doing anything else _at all_ , the weirdo). He drops a kiss on Dean’s bare shoulder and smiles sleepily at him in the mirror while Dean pauses in his shaving to grin starry-eyed back at him. The next second they’re making out, Sam with his toothbrush clenched in his hand and Dean with shaving foam over half his face. Sam pushes Dean back against the sink, licks noisily into his mouth and Ross rolls his eyes, flushes the toilet and heads back into the bedroom. They barely even notice.

Sometimes Ross joins them and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he wishes that they’d just get another fucking room and give it a break for one freaking night. But it’s like now that he knows, and now that they know that he knows, he’s got to put up with this shit. Like this is his big fucking payment for being included now and again, tit for tat, quid pro quo, what fucking ever. Sometimes it’s cool, he wakes to panted breaths and hissed moans and he’s rock hard, not thinking before he’s sliding out of his bed and into theirs; and other times, he wants to get away from them so hard that it hurts.

He starts to go out more often, sometimes they come, sometimes they don’t. When they do come, they’re not interested in hooking up with anyone else. Unable to keep their eyes off each other, even if they’re playing pool or darts, or hell, even fucking poker. It’s a miracle that they ever win any freaking money at all, they’re so fucking distracted all the goddamn time, watching each other with hooded sexy eyes and dark murderous glances for anyone who gets between them.

They make a mistake in a bar in Oklahoma. They’re all sitting at the bar, drinking their beers when Dean decides to go put something on the jukebox, Ross inwardly cringing cause he knows his brother’s taste. Sam laughs and agrees with him so he gets up and slouches over towards Dean, 'cause God forbid they actually be fucking separated for five freaking minutes. He stands behind Dean, like, _directly_ behind him, resting his chin on Dean’s shoulder, face turned to nuzzle at Dean’s throat, like he can’t even help himself, and the next thing Ross knows there’s a ugly, beet-faced redneck looming over him and slurring out: “Those faggots with you?”

He twists on his stool to face him, “Who’s asking?”

“I’m fuckin’ askin’, pretty boy,” slurs the Cletus wannabe.

“Aww, you think I’m pretty?” Ross sneers.

The guy makes an angry, strangled sound, like an obese cow in pain, and makes to lunge at him. He’s too fucking slow of course and Ross has the training and the god-given fucking _urge_ to do some major violence because no one, no fucking person has the right to say shit about his family.

He slams his fist, right fucking score of an uppercut into the guy’s fleshy jaw, feeling the satisfying squelch of a solid connection, knuckles blazing fierce with the pain. He follows up with a sock to the belly, the guy’s big, lazy gut not big enough to cushion that kinda blow. The asshole stumbles and falls backwards into a table, glassware crashing to the ground.

He senses Dean and Sam lining up beside him, though he didn't see them coming. He feels Dean’s arm shrug around his shoulders, his big brother in protective mode, his eyes narrowed in on the fat-ass sprawled across the table.

“We don’t like perverts,” says another guy.

Ross sees his brother’s head snap to the side, sneer plastering over his face when he sees the heavy barman approaching. A ring of locals circle out behind him, eyeing the three of them with the kinda looks that really could fuckin’ kill. And it's all like a movie, like a freaking Western, it's _Kill Bill_ , and all three of them are Uma.

“Yeah?” says Dean. “Who’re you calling a pervert?”

“You and your cocksucking friend,” sneers the guy, grimace of disgust as he jerks his head towards Sam. Ross can feel Dean bristle, adrenalin soaring in his body, sweat and blood and everything ready for this – ready to take on every last one of these motherfuckers – Dean and Sam beside him, all three of them, as they’re supposed to be.

“That’s what I thought,” says Dean. He’s nodding and smirking and that curl to the lip is the dangerous one, the one that means Dean is seriously about to fucking lose it. 

Dean moves lightning fast, grabs the guy, slams his head against the bar, body pinned completely, the Dad-taught move executed perfectly in under a second. Ross laughs out loud as Dean snaps a grin at him, deadly and awesome.

Dean leans over the guy, hand bracketing his neck, powerful arm holding him down and keeping his face smushed up against the bar.

“You wanna repeat that? 'Cause I’m not sure I heard correctly over the sound of your skull shattering?”

“Dean…” Sam says, and Dean looks up, glances at Sam, their eyes meeting for a second. “I think he’s got the message.”

Dean grins, wide and bright and freaking _on fire_. “Yeah, Sammy, yeah, always so fuckin’ perceptive.” He laughs nastily and backs away, hands raised up in a surrender pose. He spins around, pure fucking showmanship and pulls Sam against him, tugging him into a hungry, dirty kiss which Sam gets into in his usual intense way. Ross smirks, watching the looks of disgust and fear and anger on the faces of the cowed locals. His knuckles throb as the barman slowly raises his head from the bar and blinks dazedly and bloodily at them, at Dean and Sam making out like they're breathing for each other.

Dean pulls away from Sam with a filthy smacking sound, turns to face their audience. “Anyone got anything else to say? Anything else to contribute?”

They say nothing, stunned, belligerent silences, and a murderous blaze in their eyes. It’s kinda funny, 'cause they’re scared, they’re really fucking scared of this – and hell, if they knew – if they _knew all of it_ , what Dean and Sam actually are to each other. Ross laughs to himself and exchanges a look with Sam. Sam’s eyes are gleaming, flush of pink cheeks that means that Sammy is enjoying this, getting off on it, always such a goddamn exhibitionist.

“Alrighty then,” announces Dean and he turns and leads them out the bar.

It feels good. It feels like Ross has his big brother back. That night they wrestle and break the coffee table in the room, all three of them naked and sweaty and laughing hysterically, collapsing into a heap onto the one big king-size bed. Dean in the middle, and Ross and Sammy either side, like bookends.

A couple of days later and it's flip-flopping again. Ross hooks up with a chick in Delaware, takes her outside and into the alley by the bar. He pushes her up against the wall and kisses her hard, too hard, until she’s cursing him, teeth snapping, spitting: _I don’t like it rough, asshole!_ And it’s like he’s even forgotten that, that girls are softer, more breakable, and don’t have the hard, muscled, really fucking _male_ bodies of the Winchester family. So he bites back his anger and the bitter sick feeling in his gut, and goes back inside to find someone who _does_ like it hard.

She’s called Cindy and she grips his shoulders hard enough to leave marks when she rides him against the wall, the sex: dirty and rough and quick and everything he wants. And she’s female, and God, it feels so fucking good, soft, fleshy, squelchy girl parts and their smell… _Jesus_ , the fucking smell, this is it – this is him – this is Ross Winchester back again. He licks into her, reveling in the taste and the feel and the way she comes all over his mouth and nose, how different it all is, how fucking _normal_ it feel. How it's relaxing and easy and there's none of that tightening in his chest of being with Dean and Sam, of knowing that he's only being allowed in because he's related to them.

This girl - Cindy - she wants him here, she's fucking _worshiping_ him. She slides to her knees after he makes her come and sucks him back to hardness, lets him give her a facial, spooge sliding over her cheeks and around her lips like mayonnaise. It’s fucking awesome, and for the first time in weeks, he doesn’t think about Dean or Sam when he comes for the third time.

He stumbles back to the motel room, drunk off his ass and high on sex and getting his rocks off three times in a row. He falls through the door and they’re there: full freaking Technicolor. Dean’s face between Sam’s spread ass cheeks, tongue jammed up his freaking asshole while Sam writhes and sobs and pushes his ass back into Dean’s face. And, right now - after that, after tonight - it’s just too fucking much, and they're too fucking _gay_ and Ross can't take this, can’t take _them_. Not like this, not all the fucking time, every fucking night.

He slams the door shut and goes to sleep in the car.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Sam wakes up early, he can tell by the faint light trying to seep through the curtains that it’s early, probably around 6am. Dean is dead to the world beside him, snoring loudly into his pillow, pillowcase soaked with drool by his half-open mouth. Sam watches him for what feels like a long time, propped up on one elbow, fingers tracing gently through his hair, over his exposed shoulders, the side of his face. He shifts closer, feeling his cock hardening as he moves into Dean’s warmth, sliding his hand from Dean’s hair and down over his shoulders and back, his hot, almost scalding skin.

Dean stirs, snuffles in the pillow and mumbles, “Go ‘way, Sam, I’m sleepin’.”

Hmm, not so much dead to the world after all, the big faker. He smiles to himself and slides out of bed.

He realizes he’s actually really fucking hungry as he’s flossing in front of the mirror, baring his teeth at his reflection. He splashes some water on his face, drags a hand through his tangled hair and heads outside.

He’s about to slide into the driver’s seat when he realizes that the car is already occupied. His younger brother, who he thought was off somewhere hooking up with some poor, deluded girl, is in fact asleep in the backseat, screwed up into a ball with a couple of the blankets from their room curled around him, the top of his head and his muddy booted feet the only parts on show. Sam frowns to himself, leans over the bench seat and aims a slap at what could easily either be an arm or a leg; it’s genuinely hard to tell.

“Ross! Assface! Wake up!”

Ross starts awake immediately, bolting upright with a mingled look of shock and outrage on his face that makes Sam repress a snigger.

“Sonofabitch!” he snarls, glaring at Sam. “What the fuck are you doin’ here?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing. Thought you were out.”

“I was out,” retorts Ross, “but then I came back. Not like you and Dean woulda fuckin’ noticed.”

Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes at Ross’s pissy tone. Instead he sighs and says, “Right, well, whatever. I’m going to get some breakfast. You wanna come?”

Ross doesn’t answer but mutters something under his breath and scrambles over the bench seat into the passenger side, narrowly avoiding clocking Sam on the head with his flailing booted feet.

They end up at a diner Sam remembers noticing yesterday when they drove into town. It’s got that old fashioned sort of atmosphere: fifties style booths, glossy pictures of the specials and dusty photos of the local high school sports teams on the walls. He orders a short stack with a side of bacon and bites back a laugh at the waitress’s bemused expression when Ross orders his usual of: “Eggs and sausage, with extra eggs and sausage, and a side of sausage. And coffee, black.”

They don’t say much while they wait for the food. Ross looks tired, his hair in a worse state than Sam’s, red creases etched into his cheek and his forehead where he slept against the car’s upholstery, clothes shabby and rumpled, his eyes are red-rimmed and he’s sporting an impressive amount of five o’clock shadow. He yawns hugely and runs his hand over his jaw, that rough, scraping sound of stubble against fingers that reminds Sam with a shiver of Dean. He watches Ross play with the ketchup bottles, picking up the sugar to pour a circle of it onto the Formica table, head bowed and dark eyes narrowed in concentration. He clears his throat and Ross’s head snaps up.

“What?” he demands suspiciously.

Sam shrugs, “Nothing. Just – I was wondering what the hell you were doing in the car last night?”

Ross pulls a face at him, “Duh, sleepin’ – what the fuck d’you think I was doin’?”

“No,” Sam says patiently, “obviously you were sleeping. _Why_ were you sleeping in the car? What’s wrong with a bed?”

“Well, you and Dean were kinda fuckin’ occupied when I got back,” Ross retorts cattily, “like, he had his fuckin’ tongue up your ass, I wasn’t hangin’ around to watch that shit, s’fuckin’ gross.”

Sam laughs, ignoring his brother’s glare of annoyance. “So, you don’t mind having your dick sucked, but the idea of someone’s tongue up your ass is gross?”

“Well, it _is_ gross!” snaps Ross defensively, “So fuckin’ gay, man!”

“Ross, we made out. You and me. I gave you that hickey, right there,” he leans forward, finger poised inches from the faded purple mark on Ross’s throat, “hate to break it to you, but that’s kinda gay, dude.” Ross jerks back, scowls at him, trying to pull the torn collar of his flannel shirt together, Sam rolls his eyes. “Don’t bother; we both know it’s still there, s’not like you haven’t given the room an eyeful already.” He smirks, raises his eyebrows, “D’you think they all know that it was me that gave it to you? Your own brother?”

He watches Ross’s face and neck heat up, red flush infusing his skin as he traces patterns through the spilled sugar, head ducked and eyes not meeting Sam’s. Sam licks his lips, watching him closely, his gaze drawn irresistibly to the mark on his throat, just visible through his skewed collar. He can remember doing that only three days ago, the memory springing into his head, fully formed and really fucking vivid: the two of them naked and entwined, Ross practically in his lap as he licked into his mouth, Ross’s hands, so grabby, in his hair, a real wrestle for dominance between them. Dean only inches away, watching the two of them with glazed eyes and half-parted lips. _Jesus Christ, the two of you, the picture you make… We should film it, make a porno… God, so fuckin’ hot, Sammy…_ He could remember the jolt of heat that Dean’s words gave him, the open admiration and lust in his big brother’s face, the way Dean’s lips parted on a groan when Sam rode Ross down to the ground, pouncing on him and fastening his teeth to Ross’s throat – sucking in _that_ bruise.

He adjusts his pants under the table, smiles to himself; Ross is still refusing to look at him, still absorbed with his stupid sugar patterns, still avoiding him. So he's making the most of it: using this time to blatantly stare at his little brother, knowing that Ross can feel his eyes on him, make him squirm in this way that's... kinda delicious – this teasing Ross – the bright red color completely giving him away when he finally does look up.

“What you smilin’ at?” he demands with a glare.

Sam shrugs, “Just thinkin’ about when I gave you that hickey. That was a good memory.”

Ross blushes even more violently, eyes blinking and throat working, mouth twisting up as he spits out shakily: “You're such a fuckin' pervert. You should know that.”

“Dude, c’mon, you weren’t exactly protesting,” Sam says with another shrug. “Seem to remember you likin’ it well enough. You coulda stopped me anytime you wanted. But you didn’t.” Ross says nothing and Sam sees the flicker of something in his eyes. He leans forward, sees Ross flinch minutely, but hold his ground, gaze still meeting Sam’s with that customary challenge. He raises his eyebrows, says, “Why did you go along with it if you weren’t into it? I think you’re kinda perverted too, Littlest Brother.”

“Don’t call me that!” Ross snaps.

Sam leans back in his seat, eyes still on him, assessing, “Right,” he says thoughtfully, “okay, whatever you want.”

They sit in uncomfortable silence for a moment until the waitress comes with the food. Sam smiles up at her, deliberately layering on the charm as he thanks her profusely, asking about her day and flashing the dimples and the “fuckin’ magic eyes” to their fullest extent, until she’s smiling back at him, promising extra bacon on his order. Sam watches her walk away, feeling Ross’s eyes on him.

He turns to look at Ross and smirks, but, for once, Ross doesn’t rise to it, keeps his mouth shut, and Sam’s… disappointed.

 

 

 

Dean’s awake when they get back, he’s also working out, legs hooked under the bed as he does crunches, face locked into that intent concentration that he only gets when he’s working out. Sam looks him over, his greedy eyes taking in just how fucking _good_ Dean looks when he’s like this: sweaty and gleaming and flushed, muscles shifting fluidly under his smooth, pale skin.

“Hey, you’re back!” Dean greets them, getting up with a quick bound, bouncing lightly on his heels. “Good. Get changed, we’re goin’ on a run!”

His first thought is to protest, but it’s kinda instinctive, a reaction to how Ross is already obeying, already rummaging through his duffle for his sweats, a reaction to always being told what to do, bossed around by his big brother like he’s still a little kid. But, on the other hand, he kinda does feel in the mood for a run, training, working off some steam, so he keeps his mouth shut, just grabs his own duffle in turn, pulling out his sweats.

Dean leads them out the door and around the back of the motel, across the street and over the fences that line the main street, into the woods. He’s got a rucksack on his back full of supplies and Sam knows that this is going to be one of those full day training sessions, that Dean will work them until they’re dropping, until he’s content that the spiritual presence of John Winchester would be proud.

They run for about four miles, a steady pace set by Dean of course, whose leading, Ross on his shoulder, and Sam lagging behind them, breath coming in hard bursts as he feels the pancakes and bacon settling heavy in his belly.

Dean turns around, jogs backwards for a while, frowning back at him, “Sam! Keep up!” he calls. Sam glares at him, sees Ross glance over his shoulder and toss him a smirk. If Sam blinks then they could really be back four, five years ago, Dean in front, leading, and he and Ross jostling for second place, for the spot by Dean’s elbow.

They reach a clearing in the woods and Dean raises an arm, signaling a halt. Sam comes to a lurching stop beside his brothers, jogging on the spot as his heart slows down, leaning over to catch his breath.

“Dude, you are so out of shape,” Ross crows. Sam glowers at him and moves to shove him with his elbow, Ross dodges out of the way with a laugh, mouthing, “So lame!”

“Hey, quit it,” Dean says distractedly. He reaches into the backpack, tosses bottles of water their way, Sam catches his clumsily, unscrews the cap and takes a long and very grateful swig. He looks up again and sees Dean still drinking; head tilted back, that long line of his throat rippling. He watches, feeling his pulse start to quicken again, Jesus, if Ross weren’t here right now…

“Quit pervin, so freakin’ pathetic, dude.”

Unfortunately, Ross is very much still here.

“Fuck you,” he retorts, and hell, it’s not like he and Dean have to hide anything anymore, not when Ross is even wearing the proof of them – _this_ – whatever it is the three of them have been doing for the past few weeks - on his goddamn neck. He strolls over to Dean, hooks his fingers into the waistband of Dean’s sweats, pulling him back against his chest, pressing his face into the sweaty curve of Dean’s neck. “Hmmm, love it when you’re all sweaty,” he murmurs.

He feels Dean tense up, then sink back against him, his arm dropping, bottle sliding out of his grasp. “Sam, we’re supposed to be trainin’,” he says.

“Hmm, yeah,” he whispers, pressing his mouth up against Dean’s throat, kissing him gently, licking up the clammy beads of sweat on Dean’s hot skin. He raises his head, sees Ross watching them, eyes narrowed in annoyance and something else – jealousy, lust? Huh. He smirks, sees Ross blush and scowl back at them.

Dean makes an irritable sound and pulls out of his arms, giving him an unreadable look.

“Dude, we’re supposed to be trainin’,” he repeats.

Sam smirks at him, “Yeah, yeah, doesn’t mean it can’t be fun, too.”

Dean’s lip twitches slightly, “That can wait for later. Right now, I wanna see you two sparrin’.” He raises his eyebrows, “Well, whatcha waitin’ for?”

Ross drops his bottle of water to the floor, raises his fists, feet dancing as his eyes meet Sam’s. Sam raises his own fists, gets into his fighting stance. They circle each other warily, Sam watches Ross’s eyes narrow in on him, that complete and utter focus in his younger brother’s face, that concentration that means all of him – all of Ross – is focused on this, on beating him.

Sam takes a breath and makes the first move, lunging forward, Ross side-steps him neatly, foot coming out to trip him, Sam feels himself stagger, but rights himself almost immediately, dodging Ross’s other leg, his trailing foot. He knows that move too damn well, figured out his own counter years ago: his fist flying out, clocking his brother sharply on the jaw, feeling the crack of victory, blood soaring and swooping as his knuckles sting with the contact.

He hears Dean let out an exclamation, and before he has the time to regret it, he glances Dean’s way, just in time for Ross to land a quick one-two to his gut, following up with his entire body, the momentum sending the two of them to the floor in a wild tangle of long limbs and winded oufs of breath. This part, too, is usual for them, his and Ross’s fights never manage to stay upright for long, always end up like this: rolling around in the dirt, clawing at each other, fingers and knees jabbing into bellies and chests and faces. Ross hisses loudly, spits and snarls when Sam jams his knee upwards, connecting with his stomach, he takes advantage of Ross’s momentary struggle for breath to roll them over, until he’s on top, looming over Ross and using his extra inches to dominate him.

He’s not on top for long, though, and in the end, Ross wins. He usually does win; he’s just quicker, dirtier, more vicious than Sam, “better” a voice at the back of his mind says, and, okay, yeah, Ross _is_ better at hand to hand. And Sam can let Ross have that; after all, he gets other things, other way more important things.

He lays back down in the dirt, exhaling heavily, feeling Ross’s warm thighs either side of his hips, his ass tantalizingly close to his cock. If he closes his eyes then it could be Dean straddling him, the weight and the feel of Ross’s body so uncannily similar to Dean’s. His blood throbs heavy and thick in his head as Ross wriggles, and he feels his cock start to stir awake at the sensation, hardening rapidly in his thin sweatpants.

He hears Ross’s tight intake of breath, and when he opens his eyes, his little brother’s looking down at him with his mouth half-parted and chest heaving, his eyes wide and hot as they meet Sam’s.

“Right, my turn now!” Dean’s voice snaps them apart, Ross scrambling off him super-fast, not meeting Sam’s eyes. “Littlest Bro – wanna see if you can beat me now?”

This is also how it always used to go. Sam and Ross would fight and the winner always got to take on Dean, which generally meant that Ross would beat Sam, then Dean would beat Ross, because Dean always won. Neither Ross nor Sam (on the few occasions he got the better of Ross) had ever beaten their big brother at hand to hand.

“What do I get if I win?” asks Ross.

Dean laughs, “You won’t win.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” says Ross with a shrug. “But let’s make it, like, interesting, just in case I do beat you.”

Sam looks between the two of them, Ross is staring a challenge at Dean, all little brother bravado, eyebrows raised, face still red and flushed from their fight, Dean watching him contemplatively, a curious twist to his mouth

“Okay, okay,” he says, “we could do that. Make it interesting, like you say.”

“Good. How about – if I beat you then I get to fuck you. Up the ass.”

Sam feels the breath catch in his throat, he swallows, says quickly, “Thought that sorta shit was too fucking gay for you.”

“Nah, s’only gay if you’re the one gettin’ fucked,” says Ross.

“Bullshit!” scoffs Sam.

Ross pulls a face at him and turns back to Dean, “So, whatcha say, big brother? You in?”

Sam can feel Dean’s eyes on him, assessing and thoughtful, but he’s not looking back, not looking at Dean. He picks up his water bottle again, shuffles through the dirt to perch on the edge of a handily fallen tree trunk. He looks down at his feet, his dirty, muddy sneakers, picks up a stick, trying to scrape off the caked-on mud etched into the grooves of his soles.

“No,” he hears Dean say after what feels like a long time. “That ain’t gonna happen, kiddo.”

He lifts his head carefully, Ross is staring at Dean, eyes wide and burning, mouth working, scrunching up unhappily. “Why the fuck not?” he protests. “Sam’s always got his fuckin’ dick up your ass – it’s my turn, it ain’t fair otherwise!”

Dean hikes up one eyebrow, “This is my ass we’re talkin’ about, Ross, not a fuckin’ time-share.”

Sam represses the urge to laugh out loud, his relief at Dean rejecting Ross’s proposition suddenly mingling with his realization of how truly fucking ridiculous this entire situation is… They’re brothers for Christ’s sake, and they’re fighting over who gets to fuck who, _in the ass_. It’s absurd. They’re all certifiable.

“You’re just – you’re such a fuckin’ hypocrite, Dean!” Ross bites out, “It’s, like, one rule for Sammy and another for me, and it – it ain’t fair! I’m your brother too, and I – I – wasn’t the one who left you. I didn’t go off to fuckin’ – fuckin’ college and abandon you! I was here! The whole fuckin’ time! And you never even fuckin’ noticed!” He jerks around, slamming his palm up against a tree, kicking his foot against it viciously, a lump of bark falling off and splintering wetly. He slams his fist against the trunk again, knuckles grazing, pinpricks of blood, but he’s barely noticing, continuing his useless assault on the tree.

Sam glances at Dean, heart throbbing crazily in his chest, waiting for him to do something, to pull Ross away, to comfort him, take charge and diffuse the situation, like every single other time in their lives, but Dean’s doing nothing, watching Ross with this blank look in his eyes like he’s not sure what he’s seeing, like he doesn’t know what to do. Sam swallows back the rush of fear and springs to his feet, charging across the small clearing towards his younger brother, he grabs onto Ross’s shoulders and pulls him bodily back against his chest, into a rough embrace.

“Get offa me!” Ross hisses, trying to pull away from him, but Sam tightens his hold, fingers digging into Ross’s biceps as Ross tries to squirm away from him.

“No,” he says through gritted teeth, “I’m not lettin’ you go, not until you calm down! Jesus, Ross.” He grabs onto Ross’s right wrist, seeing the bleeding knuckles, the torn-up skin where he’s been hitting the tree. “C’mon, get a fucking grip on yourself. D’you think Dad would wanna see you like this?”

He feels Ross slump in his arms, suddenly going still, motionless, sagging against him. He staggers under the weight of his brother’s body, letting them both drop to the ground, Ross sprawling over his lap, head on his shoulder. Of course. He invoked the spirit of their father, Ross’s One True God.

“You ain’t allowed to talk about Dad,” Ross says quietly.

He can feel Ross panting for breath, chest heaving up and down, see the side of his face, his red cheeks and sweaty hair, fingers flexing uselessly as Sam tightens his grip on his wrist.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”

Ross says nothing for a moment, then heaves out a breath, voice catching, “Fuck you, Sam.”

He flinches, there’s so much desolation in Ross’s voice, so much desperation. He swallows, looks up, eyes searching for Dean, for their big brother. Dean’s still watching them both, a weary, closed-off expression in his face, their eyes meet and Sam feels a bolt of something in his chest, a hot, familiar ache, Dean’s expression hardens, his eyes flicker to the place where Sam is squeezing Ross’s wrist. Sam jerks his hand back, letting go of his brother, unlocking his fingers from their death-grip; he shifts backwards, away from Ross, ass dragging against the cold, damp soil.

He can’t give Ross what he wants, can’t make it better for him, can’t make him happy; he’s never been that person, just like Ross has never been that person for him. There’s too much damage between them, too many fucking bridges that were bulldozed apart by years of bickering and mutual loathing, petty rivalries and really fucking big rivalries. And after that, on the top of all that, there’s the knowledge that Ross knew about him and Dean for years and did nothing, just _lived_ with it.

Silently, Dean comes forward, squats down in front of Ross. He sticks out his hand, grabs his chin, tilts his head up, forcing Ross to look him in the eye.

“Are you done? Cause we’re supposed to be sparrin’.”

Sam holds his breath, waiting for Ross’s reaction; he’s half expecting his younger brother to punch Dean, to retaliate to that dismissive, imperious tone of voice. But Ross doesn’t do anything like that, too much the good little soldier, daddy’s favorite son to react as Sam would’ve done. Instead, he nods jerkily, muttering, “Yeah. Yeah, Dean, yeah,” as he pushes himself to his feet.

Dean helps him up, pulls him into a quick hug, a pat on the back, all very manly, _brotherly_ Sam thinks with a sardonic quirk of his lip. Ross pulls away and Dean smiles at him approvingly, “That’s my boy."

 

 

Dean heads out that evening after they eat, mutters something about “earning us some fuckin’ money.” Sam watches him from over the lid of his laptop; he’s half-heartedly surfing, looking for a case, something to distract them all. He aches all over from the training, after Dean beat Ross soundly at hand to hand; he took them on a cross-country trek back to the motel, stopping every mile for crunches and press-ups, just as merciless as Dad used to be.

Dean leaves, his mouth set into a taught line, that jagged, jumpy step to his walk that means he’s planning on coming back with at least $1000 in his pocket, and they need it, they’re down to their last $50, and that’s not gonna get them very far, not with the way the Impala eats gas and the motel room to pay for.

The door slams shut behind Dean, and Sam looks across at Ross; Ross hasn’t moved from his catatonic contemplation of the TV, something that looks hilariously like _So You Think You Can Dance?_ playing away uncommented on, which is in itself, very un-Ross-like. In fact, his brother’s been uncharacteristically quiet since the blow-up earlier, since his break-down in the woods, since Dean took him down in what seemed to Sam to be record time, Ross barely seeming to put up a fight.

“Hey, you enjoying that?”

Ross’s head jerks up, “Huh?”

Sam nods towards the TV, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Ross’s eyes narrow and he lifts his hand, gives him the finger.

Sam snorts and closes the laptop, “Hey, whatever. What d’you say – we go out, hit that arcade ‘cross the street?”

“What?” snaps Ross.

“There’s an arcade cross the street,” Sam repeats with deliberate slowness. “Thought we might head on over there? Hang out. Play something. Don’t know about you, but I’m kinda in the mood for some mindless videogame violence.”

Ross looks back at him for a while, as if thinking about it deeply. Finally he grabs the remote, switches off the TV, “Whatever, gotta be better than this fuckin’ shit.”

When they were younger, he and Ross were often relegated to passing their time in arcades, sixteen, seventeen year old Dean heading off into the bar with Dad, helping him to run a hustle, leaving the two younger Winchesters behind to amuse themselves. Dad never let them have more than a dollar each to spend, so they learned to make it last, playing those zombie shoot ‘em up co-op games together for hours on just a couple of quarters, wide-eyed, easily impressed kids gathering around them to watch. He remembers being thirteen years old and imagining WINCHESTERS ROCK!!! or SAM + ROSS WERE HERE, or SAMMY SUCKS COCK or ROSS IS AN ASS emblazoned across every high score board of every two-player videogame in every arcade in every small town in the Mid-West.

He trails through the arcade behind Ross whose wearing Dean’s jacket again (his own having been stolen by those inbred hillbillies a few weeks back) and an old pair of Dean’s jeans, and Sam is struck once more by the similarity between them: if it weren’t for the darker hair and the lack of bow legs, then from the back, Ross really _could_ pass for Dean. Of course, once he turns around the spell is broken and it’s Ross again, eyebrows cocked up and mouth twisted into an excitable sneer as he nods towards the _House of the Dead_ zombie shoot-em-up two player game, currently available.

“You wanna?” he says.

Sam grins, he’s suddenly really in the mood for this. “Hell, yeah. $10 says I beat your ass.”

Ross snorts, “Yeah, sure. $50 says I beat yours by at least 100,000 points.”

“You are so on, bitch.”

Ross slots the quarters into the machine and they both take up their positions, both of them holding the flimsy plastic guns as if they’re the real thing. The thing feels ridiculously light, his hand completely dwarfing it, his fingers could probably wrap twice around the barrel with room to spare; still, this is his fucking weapon and Ross is going _down_.

A half hour later and they’re both transfixed, completely focused on the screen, the ludicrous looking zombies popping up with jagged, bloody smiles and laughably inaccurate groaning noises, the two of them felling each one with the kind of lightening fast reactions that would even gain a smile from their father. They crash through the tenth level, and as the screen and cheesy horror voice counts down for the eleventh level they exchange a quick, triumphant grin, Ross’s teeth flashing white in the reflected neon lights.

“Hey, this thing got a pause button?” he asks.

Ross jams his fist down, smacking the pause, the screen stilling on huge gory red text: LEVEL ELEVEN: THIS TIME IT’S PERSONAL. Sam puts down his gun, peels off his hoodie.

“Just – so damn hot in here,” he says. Underneath his hoodie, he’s just wearing a t-shirt, dark blue, it’s sticking to his back with sweat, and he pinches the front between his fingers, fans gently, huffing out a long breath.

“Yeah,” Ross nods in agreement, “yeah.” He puts down his own gun, takes off Dean’s jacket. Underneath, he’s just wearing a tight, black t-shirt, one of Dean’s tight, black t-shirts.

“Jesus, man, you not got any clothes of your own?”

Ross shrugs, “My shit’s all fucked-up. Anyway, whatever, while you were gone, we were, like, sharin’ clothes all the fuckin’ time. We’re both the same size, you know, only your ginormous ass that’s, like, freakishly different. Only been since you’ve come back that Dean’s gotten so fuckin’ precious about what’s his and what isn’t.”

“Huh,” Sam says, surprised.

“S’like, cheaper that way.” Ross rolls his shoulders, picks up the gun again, giving Sam a smug look, “You know – if you want, man, we can, like, retract that bet? You know, it’s gonna be embarrassing.”

Sam flicks his eyes to the screen again, it _is_ kinda embarrassing, but Ross is beating him by _a lot_. Okay, he should’ve been prepared for this, Ross was probably shooting zombies in cheesy video arcade games while he was sitting in study groups or campus bars, hanging out with his friends or… he swallows, quickly cutting off the memories before they get to Jess.

He casts Ross a look, his little brother’s still wearing that smug look and Sam feels a surge of irritation. Goddamnit, they used to be pretty evenly matched, and hell, they’re still well on their way to beating the game, but he doesn’t want to do it like this, with Ross so far ahead of him, the little shit’s already nailed him at the hand to hand today... Ross is his _younger_ brother for Christ sake, he doesn’t get to win; he doesn’t get to beat him all the fucking time. And okay, so Ross doesn’t beat him all the time, he’s still got it where it counts, (with Dean, a voice at the back of his head says, remembering Dean’s quiet, _no, that ain’t gonna happen, kiddo_ ), but come on, he used to _rock_ at this.

He should be able to slide into this so easily, like he’s slid into so many other things he forgot about during those years at Stanford, but sometimes, he still feels so far out of synch with his brothers. He could feel it in the training this afternoon, can feel it now in this arcade, the kind of place that used to be like a second home. Even with Dean, when it’s just the two of them, together, just like they used to be, it’s not completely like it used to be, too much has changed; Dean is still… he’s still kinda distant, closed-off and careful in a way he never used to be before. Even at those glorious moments when he pushes inside Dean, when he has him in a way Dean very rarely allowed before, he never feels like he’s getting the entire thing, it still feels like Dean's keeping part of himself locked away, somewhere safe where Sam can’t get at it.

He can understand it, Dean was hurt by his leaving, felt betrayed by it, though he’s never come outright and said it. Even back then, when Sam made the announcement, he never begged him to stay, never stopped him, but for Dean, it was still a betrayal, an abandonment – hell, even Ross was astute enough to see that. Sometimes he feels like he’s never going to be able to make up for those years they were apart, and there’s a part of him that believes he doesn’t deserve to.

It’s Dean and Ross who have all the history now, he thinks. They’ve done stuff together, been together every day and every hour for all those months he was at college, and they’ve developed their own little routines, like this - sharing clothes – and it shouldn’t matter to him, but it _does_ matter, it _does_ rankle. He has to - _needs_ to know everything, know what Dean’s been doing these past two years, know what he’s been thinking, and Ross, too, because Ross is part of Dean, part of the two of them, family.

Their family has never dealt in half measures; it’s always been all or nothing with them. Sam was nothing for those years at Stanford, but before that, he was all. When it was Dad and Dean and Sammy and Ross, there was no real sense of self, they shared everything, everything they owned, everything they were boiling down to this overwhelming, all-prevailing, all-absorbing sense of family, of us against the world. Back then of course, he hated that, yearned for his own space, his own life, with Dean, somewhere where he could just be him - be _Sam_ \- instead of always being Sammy, just another part of the four-headed Winchester Cerberus. But now… he wants to be one of them again, he wants Dean – his heart, body, mind and soul – he wants Dean to trust him like he used to.

Sam turns his head, meets Ross’s eyes. “No fuckin’ way. The bet’s still on.”

“Right, your loss, man.”

It’s kinda ludicrous that they’re even having this bet. After all, Dean’s the one who has and looks after the money, doling it out to either one of them when he’s flush. Occasionally, Sam gets his own money, when he manages to run a hustle of his own, when he wins good on a card game, helps out Dean. But Ross… well, Ross has always just taken whatever Dean gives him, never even thought about challenging that status quo.

Still, it’s not the money that matters here, it’s the bragging rights. And he can’t lose this badly, to his little brother, not after this afternoon, after everything.

Ross smacks the pause button again and the game resumes.

They’ve lost track of time, they’re concentrating so hard that the two of them practically jump out of their skins when the screen goes still, game freezing up.

“Heeeeyyyy… What the fuckin’ fuck?” protests Ross, mouth falling open in horror.

Sam jerks around to see Dean standing a few inches behind them, arms crossed, looking pissed. “Do you know how fuckin’ long I’ve been lookin’ for you two?” he demands.

“Dude, did you, like, just lose us that game…” starts Ross, chest heaving up and down in wide-eyed panic.

“Relax, it’s on pause,” snaps Dean.

Ross visibly exhales in relief, and Sam is right there with him, because they’ve been – he glances at his watch – _holy fuck_ , they’ve been playing for three goddamn hours! _Man._

“We gotta go,” says Dean.

“Nuh-uh, no fuckin’ way,” says Ross decidedly, “we’re nearly, fuck, Dean, we’re, like, this fuckin’ close to completing this thing. We’re not going anywhere. Right, Sammy?”

Sam nods, “Right.”

Dean looks between them in disbelief, “I don’t fuckin’ believe this –“

“Relax, man, we’ll see you back at the motel,” says Ross dismissively.

“No! Just – no!” says Dean, his voice getting louder, breathing more erratic. “I just took those redneck bastards in that bar over there for $1200 - $1200 that will keep us in food and gas and pansy-ass shampoo,” (a glare for Sam) “and cigarettes,” (a glare for Ross) “for the next coupla weeks. And those guys are lookin’ to seriously do some damage to my sweet ass, so we are leavin’! Like, now, straight away. C’mon!”

Sam gulps, exchanges a look with Ross, his little brother’s looking torn, glancing longingly back at the screen: Level 47, they’re on fucking level 47, only three more levels to go before they beat it. Damn.

“Dean, look,” he says persuasively, widening his eyes and trying for that pleading face of his that Dean has never been able to resist. “We’re so fuckin’ close, dude. Just three more levels and we’ll beat it, and we’ve been here for hours, you gotta let us finish, please, Dean.”

Ross nods vigorously, “Yeah, yeah, please, Deano. You can pack our shit; we’ll be back in, like, 30 minutes. I swear.”

Dean grits his teeth, glaring daggers at them before he turns on his heels and stomps out of there.

“Shit,” Ross exhales, catching Sam’s eye, he grins slightly, nodding towards the screen, “We better fuckin’ finish this thing.”

 

 

 

Dean’s pissed with both of them for the four hour drive out of Tennessee. Ross just endures it by stealing Sam’s recently acquired IPod (won in a poker game in Massachusetts) and falling asleep across the backseat. Sam decides to do something about it when they finally stop at a deserted parking lot in Alabama, just over the state border. He pushes Dean back against the driver’s side door, unzips his jeans and swallows his soft cock whole, feeling it spring to life in his mouth. He smiles around it, glancing quickly into the backseat to check that Ross is definitely asleep. He is, still wearing the IPod, the tinny sound of Radiohead seeping through the earbuds, if Ross were awake he’d be bitching about Sam’s “lame-ass emo crap” and skipping on the track right now, the fact that Sam can even hear _any_ of _Paranoid Android_ means that Ross is really and truly asleep, and they’re good to go.

The side of his face is jammed against the steering wheel and Dean’s hands are knotted way too tightly in his hair for comfort, but it’s still awesome. It’s still the taste of Dean flooding his mouth, Dean’s jizz sliding slimily down his throat, catching on his lips and tongue. He looks up when he’s done, licking his lips, eyes searching greedily for Dean’s face – that expression he knows so well.

“Jesus Christ, Sammy,” Dean breathes hopelessly, eyes lidded and expression hazy. “Man, you – that – Christ, man…”

Sam laughs and reaches for the flat bottle of coke in the footwell, he takes a swig, passing it around his mouth, the sugary, syrupy taste mingling oddly with the salty, brackish taste of his brother’s spunk.

Dean half does up his pants and cranks the driver’s side door open, spilling out into the parking lot. Sam glances over his shoulder at Ross, he hears the track change to The Verve’s _Lucky Man_ and Ross still doesn’t complain or stir, hell, he’s most definitely asleep.

He can see Dean lighting a cigarette through the windshield and he steps outside himself, the air outside not that much different from inside the car – clammy and close.

Dean turns and grins at him from over the roof of the car, bad mood completely forgotten. “Next time we stop, remind me to reciprocate, cause that, dude, that was awesome.”

“I won’t forget,” Sam says with his own smile.

Dean laughs lightly and exhales, smoke coming from his mouth in thin, grey clouds. Sam walks around the side of the car, perches on the hood, it feels warm underneath him, the warmth seeping through his jeans to his ass. He shifts, edges up the hood, feeling Dean’s eyes on him. Dean throws away his half-smoked cigarette and stalks around to him, placing his hands on Sam’s thighs and parting them, sliding into the V of his body, pressing his mouth up against the side of Sam’s face.

“You smell like an ashtray,” Sam says, wrinkling his nose.

“Well, you smell like a jockstrap.”

“ _Your_ jockstrap.”

Dean tilts his head back, grins lewdly, “Hell, yeah.” He leans in again, going for the kiss. Sam opens his mouth, hands going up to bracket Dean’s face, hold him in place as he licks greedily into his brother’s mouth, ignoring the harsh tang of tobacco. After all, Dean is right, he does taste of come, come and coke, the unintentional rhyme has him sniggering, coughing on Dean’s tongue. Dean pulls away, gives him an unimpressed look, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, just – I was thinking, I must taste of come and coke – made me laugh is all.”

Dean’s still looking unimpressed, “Lame, man, so lame.”

Sam laughs again, “I thought it was funny.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Dean.

He pulls away, sighs, jiggling his legs, pacing around in front of the car. It’s a normal Dean thing, he likes to stop every so often, when they can, get out and pace around for a while. He’s got this weird thing about getting blood clots in his legs, says it’s one of the many reasons he’s never setting foot on a plane again. Sam sits, head tilted back, staring up at the stars, hearing Dean pace around in front of him.

“Sam.”

He looks back towards Dean; Dean’s regarding him with this thoughtful expression on his face, lips pressed together.

“Yeah?”

“You know I’ve been noticin’ you with Ross, and, well, I can see that you’re really tryin’, that you’re both – you’re gettin’ on better. You’re mending bridges. And I know that’s you, that’s all you, doing that.”

“Ye-ah,” he says slowly, “I guess, though, man, it ain’t easy.”

Dean exhales, “Yeah, hell, yeah, I know that.”

“There’s so much – me and Ross – it’s just, it’s never been good,” he perseveres, “and I know that’s kinda my fault, I should’ve been more welcoming to him when I was younger, like you were. I acted liked a spoiled little brat.”

“You were a kid, dude, you were six years old.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly get much better when I got older.” He sighs wearily, leans back on his hands, palms flat down against the car, the warm metal.

“You tried,” says Dean with a shrug. “You did your best; you were just a kid. And Ross is – well, he’s Ross, you know, not the easiest kid to get along with,” he shakes his head, smiles fondly, “and believe me: he resented you just as much as you resented him.”

“You think?”

Dean nods, “Yeah, I do. I think – this ain’t just about you. There’s three of us, hell, four of us to blame here, Dad, too. Cause he – with Ross’s mom –“ he breaks off and his face scrunches up, blinking, mouth moving unhappily.

“You think about that too, huh?” Sam says quietly.

Dean exhales heavily, nods, “Yep. Always did. Though, I tried not to. After all, ain’t Ross’s fault. Ain’t really Dad’s either, can’t blame the guy. You need it, you know, the comfort, whatever, a man can’t be fuckin’ celibate his whole life. That shit ain’t natural. But,” he swallows, sighs again, “only four months after Mom, you know, he knocks up this other chick. I can’t – sometimes I think about it and it just –“

“It makes you angry?” Sam finishes.

“Yeah,” says Dean in an even quieter tone. There’s a long silence between them, then Dean says abruptly, “After you left, it was – I went – nearly six months. I couldn’t, you know. Just the thought of being with anyone else.” He presses his lips together, ducks his head, “Jesus, just listen to us, talk about freakin’ chick flick moments…”

Sam doesn’t say anything, his mind, his brain still caught over Dean’s admission, his words: _just the thought of being with anyone else_. He slides off the car, crowds into Dean, hands going up to frame his face, stare into his eyes.

“I’m not going again, Dean. I promise. I’m stayin’ right here. With you. Never leaving you again.”

“Yeah, you say that, but –“

“No, no, not this time. Not again. Like I told you, I already lost you once, can’t do it again. No way. C’mere, kiss me.” He opens his mouth, presses his lips on Dean’s, pushes his tongue into his mouth, feeling Dean’s own tongue brushing against his own, his mouth opening him up, letting him in, hands coming up to fist in his hair, tugging him closer. They sink to the ground, concrete meeting Sam’s knees with a jolt, his back scraping up against the car’s front bumper; he pulls Dean in, legs interlocking and arms entwining. He pulls away and pants for breath, Dean’s mouth against his cheek, stubble raspy against his skin.

He turns his head so their eyes meet, their faces are so close that Dean’s barely in focus, a blur of streetlight colored skin and dark, glassy eyes. He pulls his head back, bringing his brother’s face into focus. Dean smiles at him, soft and private, and Sam huffs out a laugh, leans in to nuzzle against Dean’s temple, lick the lobe of his ear.

“God, I love everything about you,” he breathes out. “Every part of you is so fuckin’ gorgeous, Dean.”

“Such a chick, Sammy,” he murmurs, but his voice, never mind his body, is giving him away, breath hitching at Sam’s words, trembling under Sam’s mouth.

“Mmm,” he groans, hand cupping Dean’s face. “Look at me.”

Dean turns his head to look at him; he looks on edge, uncertain. His hand goes up, pushes Sam’s hair back off his face, so gentle, his fingers linger, catch in his hair. “Sam,” he says quietly, “the reason – before – in the woods, when Ross asked if he could fuck me, it wasn’t just cause of us, cause of you that I said no.”

For a moment, he’s taken aback by the admission, the sudden change of subject, but he doesn’t say anything, just continues staring into Dean’s face, seeing him lick his lips, that thoughtless gesture that makes something dip and roll in Sam’s belly, but that just means Dean’s searching for the words, trying to figure out what he’s about to say.

“Ross is – he thinks he’s so caught up in this – and I think, in a way, he is, or he thinks he is, just cause he doesn’t know any different. But he still has a chance, you know. You and me – this is it for us, man, we’re set for life. There’s no chance for us. But Ross… he can, he can still have a chance, find someone, get away from – from me – from what he thinks he’s feelin’ for me –“ he stumbles over the words, trying to duck his head, look away from Sam, but Sam’s not letting him, hand firmly on Dean’s cheek, eyes burrowing into his. He’s hearing all of Dean’s words, his rambling, stumbling explanations, but there’s really only one thing he can hear, one thing that stands out.

“Us being set for life – is that not a good thing?” he whispers. He’s terrified by Dean’s answer, by what Dean might say, his true feelings. Dean wants him, needs him, loves him, of that he is certain beyond all doubt, but Dean’s always carried such a weight of guilt with it, always been ashamed of his own feelings, always felt so unhappy about them.

“Honestly, I have no fuckin’ idea,” Dean says with a weary, wry sort of amusement. “It just is. I’ve tried to not feel this way about you, but nothing works, so I’m just lettin’ it happen now. You and me, we’re stuck like this, Sammy.”

“But Ross isn’t,” he says thoughtfully.

“Yeah, or at least, he doesn’t have to be.”

“But – what if this is what he wants? What if what he really wants _is_ you, us, whatever? What then?”

The question’s pretty much rhetorical because he knows what’s Dean’s going to say, knows Dean’s feelings towards his little brothers, his love and devotion, duty and dedication to them, to putting them first, their feelings before anything else. Dean will do whatever it takes to keep him and Ross happy; will sacrifice every part of himself for them, for their well-being.

“Then I have to convince him that he’s wrong,” says Dean.

For a moment, Sam can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Huh? What?” he stares at Dean, doing an actual, real-live double-take.

But Dean hasn’t heard him, he’s staring out across the desolate parking lot, towards the back country road, the occasional flash of headlights speeding past. “I just have to figure out how I’m gonna do it, how I’m gonna fix this – this fuckin’ mess, cause it ain’t like… I’m not lettin’ him leave on his own. We’re his family, we all belong together. And when we find Dad… Shit, God knows what the fuck we’re gonna do then.”

He sighs wearily, drops his head into his hands, passing them through his short, mussed hair, then down over his face, knuckling his eyes, ring scraping over his stubbled cheeks and jaw.

Sam watches him for what feels like a long moment, though it’s probably only a minute, maybe even less than that, his heart is beating loudly in his chest, the thump, thump, thump of love and lust, hell, it’s usually both where Dean is concerned, when they’re this close together.

“Do you think,” he starts, he hesitates, unsure whether to continue, then he sighs, says, “Dean, do you think that Dad’s still out there? Still alive?”

“Yes,” Dean says after a moment. He twists his head, catches Sam’s eye, that wry smile back again. “I think – if he were dead – I think we’d know, we’d feel something. Or at least you two would, the vision twins.” He lets out a small, humorless bark of a laugh.

“You really think?” he asks. “I don’t know if it works that way, man.”

“Well, none of us do,” Dean says matter-of-factly. “But Dad, he can help, when we find him. And I think we will, Sammy, he’s definitely still out there.”

Sam’s reassured by Dean’s words, by the surety, the _belief_ in his brother’s voice. A few months ago that had irritated him, rubbed him up the wrong way, Dean’s complete and utter belief in their father’s omnipotence, but now it’s weirdly comforting. The thought that Dad is somewhere out there, that when they find him, he’ll have all the answers, not just about what murdered Jess, God, Jess, he hasn’t thought about her in so long –

He swallows, bites back the wave of guilt, quickly closes off the thought and turns his head to look at his brother again, to drink him in: profile made white and mysterious in the dark, body so warm against him. He thinks about his old dream, that wishful thinking he used to do while he lay in bed at night: him and Dean - the two of them – just the two of them – criss-crossing the country together, hunting, sharing a bed, partners in all senses of the word, imagining how different, how less _endless_ the landscape through the windshield would look when it was just him and Dean, imagining how fucking _thrilling_ it would be to ask some homophobic motel clerk for a king-size room instead of the usual two queens. How it would feel to be able to touch Dean whenever he wanted, free from Dad’s and Ross’s watchful eyes, to have him all to himself, God, he used to want that so much…

It took him a long while to realize that that fantasy future was just a pipedream, to realize that it was never going to happen, not while Dean was still Dean. Not while Ross and Dad were both still alive and there were people to save and monsters to hunt, Mom’s memory to avenge.

And what about now? Does he still want that future?

The immediate, heart-wrenching answer is, yes, of course… and yet… Sam’s never been scared of self-analysis, never been afraid to really think things over, go over, rummage through his own feelings, his own heart, he’s always owned them, stopped feeling ashamed of his feelings for Dean a long time ago. He thinks suddenly about Ross’s face in the arcade, about the two of them annihilating those zombies, beating the game at the end, their joint whoops and high-fives, the enormous, triumphant grin on Ross’s face when he asked him: “Which fuckin’ bumfuck state are we in?” before typing: WINCHESTERS 1 TENNESSEE 0 into the high score box with painstaking slowness.

He turns his face into the crook of Dean’s neck, nuzzling against his favorite spot, the soft, smooth skin. “You know, I’ll go along with whatever you want.”

Dean pulls away, gives him a dubious look, “Uh-huh, right. You forget that I know you. You’re not exactly the most _amenable_ of guys.”

Sam feels his mouth crook, huffing out a breath, he shrugs, says, “I think you’re right – about Ross. Between us, we’ve both fucked him up but good, so, I’m willing to go along with whatever you think is best. I have faith in you, Dean, I know you'll do the right thing for him, that you'll do what's necessary for all of us."

There's a long silence before Dean speaks again, when he does his voice is faint, almost lost to the night, "Thanks."

 

[Next Chapter](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/24367.html)


	13. Chapter 13

It’s cool to be in an actual big city for once. There’s something about big cities that mean space, like, real space, space for Ross to get away from his brothers, not that it ever seems to work out like that. Still, there’s the _potential_ for space, potential for him to get away for one night, to do his own thing, away from the never-ending mass of Winchesterness that is his life.

Whatever, nothing like that's going to happen tonight, 'cause right now, at this exact fucking moment in time, they’re on a job. Which is why he’s sitting, propped up against a bar, next to his big brother, bored out of his fucking skull and listening to Dean flirt with the reasonably hot bartender in an effort to pump her for intel on her dead co-worker.

“Really?” says Dean, flashing her his bestest, widest and toothiest grin. It’s the exact same one Ross has been copying for years and he’s never known it to fail with the chicks, and whoop-di-do, sure enough, it’s getting the right results now because the bartender has taken Dean’s phone from his hand and is busy giggling and programming in her number.

Dean nudges him in the side and raises his eyebrows at him in way that makes him look both smug and goofy, like, at the same time, it’s even sorta impressive.

“Jesus, what is with you tonight?” hisses Dean.

Ross shrugs. “Thought you were supposed to be getting intel from her. Not her fuckin’ phone number.”

“Oh my God,” says Dean in a low voice, giving the chick an encouraging grin, “you’ve turned into Sam, haven’t you? You’re not Ross at all, but really Sammy in disguise.”

“Fuck you,” bites back Ross.

Dean just raises his eyebrows again, and this time it’s all about the smug.

“Who turned into me?”

And great, here’s Sam, all Ross needs to make his night even more fucking perfect.

Dean ignores both of them and goes back to chatting with the bartender, taking his phone back from her with a grin and a wink. He accepts the free drink she slides his way, her hand lingering over his. Ross feels his eyes narrow, and glancing at Sam, he can see his expression mirrored in his brother’s face.

Shit, is he really, like, seriously turning into Sam? Is it going to be like this every time Dean flirts with another fucking chick or _God_ , even worse, a dude? He never used to be bothered by it. Dean and he were wingmen, they always used to pick up girls together, it was normal. It was what they did, or what they _used_ to do, 'cause it’s not like Dean’s been looking to hook up with anyone seriously since Sammy came back. Not that Ross has let Dean’s pathetic lack of game stop him from having fun and hooking up as much as he damn well pleases. No fucking way.

So why the fuck is this bothering him now? Why’s it making him all irritable and itchy and Jesus, okay, he can admit it: fucking _jealous_ that Dean’s all over this freaking chick? Shit makes no fucking sense. It would be understandable if it were a dude, 'cause, yeah, he’s never liked watching his big brother make time with dudes, vanishing into some skeezy bathroom with them to suck their cock, yeah, that shit was freaking unhygienic and Jesus, man, so fucking _gay_. And, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah, thinking like this is really fucking hypocritical of him, given what the three of them have been up to over the past couple of months, but whatever, he never claimed that his brain ever made any fucking sense.

Anyway none of that shit matters right now and he knows that Dean isn’t gonna get serious with this chick, whatever she might think. And definitely not with Sam there, scowling and bristling with jealousy, looming over the bar being freakishly tall and super intense.

Ross rolls his eyes and elbows Sam out the way. Sam immediately spins around and glares at him.

Ross makes a face back at him. He might have suddenly developed this weird and way out of character jealousy thing involving his big brother, but at least, he’s not so freaking _obvious_ about it.

“Calm the fuck down, man,” he says, “just want to know if you want a fuckin’ drink?”

“Okay,” says Sam, but he’s way distracted, eyes narrowed in on Dean and the bartender like the possessive sad-ass he is.

Ross waves the other (much) less cute bartender over to take their order, shoving Sam his beer when she serves them. Sam’s not looking at him, and wonder of wonders, he’s not even looking at Dean anymore, he’s looking over at the pool tables on the other side of the room.

“Duh, Sam, beer’s here,” he tells him.

“Hold it,” says Sam, totally not interested, peering through the crowd at something or more likely, someone. He takes off without another word which… rude much? 

Ross watches him push through a group of people heading for some badly dressed blond chick sitting at a table by herself. And yeah… she’s got strange hair and is a bit skinny for his tastes, but overall she’s not that bad, he’d hit it. She’s looking pleased to see Sam, though, grinning with a helluva lot of teeth and patting him on the arm in a familiar kinda way. So they obviously know each other. So, is she an old college pal? An ex-hookup? He snorts to himself, yeah, right.

“Where’d Sam go?”

He drags his eyes away from Sam and the blond chick as Dean joins him again, obviously finished with the bartender for the moment.

“Talking to some chick over there,” he answers.

Dean’s eyes follow where he’s pointing and narrow slightly when he spots Sam and the girl. He probably doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. It’s almost funny, the two of them, the way they get, like a couple of jealous teenagers. But Dean’s on his feet before Ross has a chance to grab their beers and follow him over.

Sam and the chick are sharing a laugh about the randomness of them bumping into each other like this, and man, other people’s conversations can be so freaking boring sometimes. Seriously, does Sam really flirt with chicks like this? No wonder he took up fucking his brother if this is the extent of his game. Dean, meanwhile, is trying to get their attention, fake coughing, which Sam is totally ignoring, (on purpose of course, probably payback for the cute bartender), when the chick turns to Dean and says:

“Dude, cover your mouth.”

Dean looks taken aback for a second, quickly followed up by pissed, while Sam just looks amused. Okay, so she’s one of _those_ chicks, the “sassy” kind.

Finally, Sam decides that it’s time to, like, actually fucking introduce them all, which he does by muttering: “Meg, this is Dean and Ross, my brothers,” and that starts old Sassy Pants off with a tirade against Dean, accusing him of dragging Sam around, treating him like luggage, and seriously, where the fuck is she getting this crap?

Dean’s eyes are kinda wide, like, totally disbelieving what this obnoxious, sorry, _“sassy”_ bitch is saying to him. Seriously, where the fuck does she get off, accusing _his_ brother of treating Sam like luggage? What a fucking joke, like Dean has ever treated Sammy as anything other than his super-special-adored-little-brother-and-favoritest-person-in-the-whole-freaking-world? Man, it’s just… sometimes he thinks he’s kinda getting to know Sam, and, like, understand him, and then he goes and pulls something like this: bad-mouthing their family, bad-mouthing _Dean_ to a fucking stranger? No one gets to talk smack about their family, to talk smack about Ross’s big brothers other than Ross himself.

He’s about to say something along these lines, mouth open to retort, eyes flashing dangerously, when he feels Dean’s hand on his shoulder and hears his quiet, “Don’t." Dean throws Sam a serious stink-eye and drags Ross back towards the bar.

“Dude, what a bitch,” Ross says when they get safely away from Sam and Sassy Pants.

Sam comes to join them two minutes later. He’s looking a mix between sheepish and suspicious, avoiding Dean’s eyes, which is just as well for him, 'cause Dean is totally _glaring_ at him.

“So, who the fuck is she?” asks Ross, 'cause Dean’s obviously too busy brooding to ask.

“Just a girl I met. And shit, it’s so weird, running into her here. I met her, literally on the side of the road in Indiana, and now she’s here, at this same bar in Chicago. Something’s really off about that, something’s not right.”

“Oh, but it is right to bitch about me to some chick, huh?” cuts in Dean. And whoa… here we go…

“What?”

“What’d you tell her about me, Sam? Why’d she go off like that? Am I keeping you against your will? Let me know if I am, Sammy. Let me know if I’m dragging you around like _luggage_.” And with that he’s stomping off, hands shoved into his pockets and looking more bow-legged that usual.

“Dean, _no_ , Dean, wait,” Sam doesn’t bother looking back before he’s off after Dean. Fucking drama queens.

 

 

 

They all make it back to the motel eventually, though Ross kinda wishes they hadn’t. The atmosphere between Sam and Dean is seriously tense. Sam’s sitting on the edge of his bed, his eyes following Dean around with this bruised hurt look on his face that makes him look like Dean’s just stolen and destroyed his favorite Barbie. Ross snickers to himself at the analogy, earning him two identical glares from both his brothers.

He rolls his eyes, says, “Jesus, will you two kiss and make the fuck up already? You’re both such pathetic, jealous bitches. It’s totally pitiful.”

Sam’s glare gets darker and Dean’s blustering to his feet, protesting and bitching at Ross about the case _they’re supposed to be working…_

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ross says, making a grab for the remote. “Let me know when you’ve, like, gotten some actual fuckin’ useful information that isn’t just some desperate chick’s phone number.”

“I’m going out,” states Sam, getting abruptly to his feet.

“Where?” snaps Dean, gaze swooping his way.

“Since when do I have tell you whenever I go anywhere?”

“Since I’m the oldest and I’m in charge!” 

“You’re not the boss of me, Dean. And you can’t always tell me what to do!” He slams the door shut and a moment later they hear the roar of the Impala.

“Sonofabitch!” hisses Dean. He falls back heavily onto the other bed, still scowling.

“Relax, he’ll get over it,” Ross tells him.

Dean doesn’t say anything, just sort of snorts under his breath and lets out a sigh, that long, painful sigh of his that Ross just fucking _hates_ hearing. 

Without thinking, he gets suddenly to his feet, rounds the other bed, coming to a stop directly in front of Dean. Dean tips his head back and looks up at him. His expression is closed-off, but there’s this sort of anticipatory glint in his eyes, like he’s waiting for Ross to make the next move, and Ross thinks: _this is my brother, this is Dean, this is my big brother…_ the thoughts coming out and beating across his brain in this way that’s, just, totally redundant, because, duh, yeah, course this is Dean, but also, at the same time this is really fucking overwhelming, because holy fuck, _this is Dean_ , and he _wants_ him. He wants to do bad, dirty shit with him and that’s so fucking fucked-up and wrong.

He swallows and lifts his hand, placing it gently on Dean’s right cheek. His hand looks curiously big against Dean’s face and he can feel Dean’s skin, the dry flaky patch near his temple, the stubble against his palm and his thumb somewhere near Dean’s lip. He stares down at Dean’s mouth and strokes his thumb against Dean’s bottom lip, feeling the wet squishiness of it against his skin.

Suddenly, Dean opens up his mouth and sucks in Ross’s thumb, causing Ross to gasp out loud, which… man, so fucking pathetic and embarrassing. Though, that ain’t the worst of it, 'cause he’s, like, totally popping a fucking boner now, just from this: from Dean sucking on his thumb, cheeks hollowing, making him look exactly the same as when he sucked Ross’s cock a few nights back, and that… _fuck_ , that was _amazing_ , like total cock-sucking Olympic standards, if there was such a thing. Dean’s watching him closely, like he’s totally reading Ross’s mind, his eyes all wide and huge and girly, and his mouth making these squelchy, kinda obscene sucking noises. 

He gasps when he feels Dean’s hand pressing down against his cock, palm flat against his fly. Dean’s expression goes all smug, well, smugger, and he does that annoying eyebrow thing. Ross feels his face flushing, like, he’s totally fucking _blushing_. At Dean! His goddamn brother for fuck’s sake, which is beyond pathetic, because… _come on_ , it’s not like they haven’t been here before. But that doesn’t seem to matter, not at fucking all, because his dick’s decided to go fucking crazy and is making him act like some blushing virgin.

He makes a noise and moves quickly, using his other hand and his weight to push Dean back onto the bed and climb on top of him. Dean lets out a breath, laughing shakily to himself, and Ross uses the distraction to pull his thumb, now all warm and wet and sticky, out of Dean’s mouth. He straddles Dean’s hips and looms over him, leaning down for the kiss. Dean lets Ross kiss him. It’s the only way to describe it really, 'cause he doesn’t seem to be reciprocating, but then again, he’s not pulling away or telling Ross to stop or shoving him off or anything like that, and Dean is totally capable of doing that if he wanted to, which means…

Jesus, he has no fucking clue what it means. He’s only really all about how stupidly good it feels to kiss Dean, to drag his tongue over Dean’s, to taste his mouth and really, seriously fucking _mack_ on the bastard, on Dean, his big brother.

Finally, Dean seems to stop fucking, like, angsting over whatever he’s doing, and starts making an effort to reciprocate, sinking his fingers into Ross’s ass and pulling him in closer, tongue invading and exploring Ross’s mouth. They make out for a while like this, just biting and sucking at each other’s mouths, Ross grinding his erection down against Dean’s crotch. He pulls back with a gross slurping sound to catch his breath and steals a look at his brother’s face. Dean’s cheeks are pink and flushed, and his mouth looks sort of plush and puffy, exactly like it looks after he and Sammy have been eating each other’s faces for ages, and yeah, he’s way too intimately acquainted with how that looks.

He leans down, about to kiss Dean again when Dean’s hand comes out, palm pressing into Ross’s chest, stilling him.

“Wait,” Dean says.

He freezes, hesitates, searching Dean’s face. Dean’s wearing that sort of conflicted look he gets, that troubled, unhappy one, and Ross can feel his heart start to sink and his chest start to tighten, because he knows that fucking look.

“What?” he demands impatiently. “What the fuck’s wrong now, Dean? C’mon, let me kiss you again.”

“No, Ross, I said, wait."

“Jesus, dude, what for?”

“I don’t think we should be doing this,” Dean says.

He’s not looking at Ross; gaze fixed somewhere over Ross’s shoulder, like he’s totally refusing to meet Ross’s eyes, like he’s totally pussying out of this fight, or whatever this is going to be. Ross feels a knot of anger tighten up in his belly, and it’s just – Christ! It’s not fucking fair, he’s really fucking horny, like, his cock is totally pressing up against Dean’s belly and there sure ain’t no way Dean can’t feel that too, because Ross is totally packing, and _man_ , just what the fuck is his deal?

“What? Ain’t it kinda late for that?” he snaps back. “You know, considering all the shit we’ve been doin’ these past few weeks.”

Dean says nothing, just sort of narrows his eyes and bucks his hips to throw Ross off. And it’s not like he has a choice now, 'cause Dean’s obviously made his decision, and Ross knows better than anyone how epically stubborn his brother can be.

“You’re a fuckin’ tease, you know that?” he snarls as he climbs off Dean. He sits on the edge of the bed and presses his palm down against the hard outline of his cock. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him and he knows that Dean’s following his hand, that Dean can clearly see his erection. “I don’t get you! What the fuck is your problem? Is it 'cause Sam ain’t here? Is it 'cause of that?”

Dean presses his lips together and glares at him for a moment, but doesn’t say anything.

“Oh, what the fuck ever!” he grits out. He gets to his feet and stalks across the four feet to the other bed, climbing onto it and shifting up the mattress until he’s sitting up against the headboard. He gets comfortable and unbuttons his fly, making a fist around his stubbornly hard dick. “Well, you know, I’m still fuckin’ horny, so I’m gonna sit here and jerk the fuck off, and you can just, like… well I don’t give a fuck what you do!”

“Ross,” Dean says, and his voice is quiet, almost sort of pleading. “Ross, c’mon, man. This – you gotta see, this ain’t right, all this shit that’s been going on between us, between you and me, and between all three of us, it’s wrong. Don’t you get that?”

He doesn’t say anything, gritting his teeth and staring down at his own palm, his fingers curled around the base of his cock. He has a sudden flash memory: Sam’s big hand, dragging up and down his shaft, Sam’s face so close to his, his stupid wavy hair curling around his ears, the line of his nose, swell of his cheeks, all of it, so fucking familiar. And it had been so good, felt so good, though it shouldn’t’ve. He knows that, he’s not a fucking idiot, whatever Dean might think.

“Ross, think about Dad. What would Dad say if he knew what we were doing? He’d kill me, he’d fuckin’ kill me. For messing with you, screwing you up like this.”

He laughs hollowly. “Dad ain’t here, Dean. I don’t know if you’ve been, like, taking notice, but he ain’t been here for a while.”

“So?” Dean says quickly, “So what? Don’t mean we get to slack off or fool around or fuck shit up. I’m still responsible for you.”

“Whatever,” he mouths to himself. He grips harder around his cock, he can feel it wilting already, and he doesn’t want to jerk off now, not even sure if he could. Hell, what’s he saying – course he fucking _could_ , if he wanted. But he doesn’t know if he wants to anymore. He buttons his pants back up and gets up from the bed. It’s not even like he can go anywhere right now, because Sam’s taken the fucking car.

“What you doing?” Dean asks, sounding wary.

He pauses, hesitates in the middle of the room, he shrugs, “Don’t know.”

There’s a hesitation from Dean, then he says, “C’mere.”

Ross turns around, a sudden surge of hope in his chest; maybe Dean’s changed his mind? 

Dean pats the bed beside him, voice getting a shade lighter, looser. “C’mere, kiddo,” he repeats.

He slides onto the bed beside his brother, shifts so he’s sitting up at the headboard alongside Dean, bodies almost touching, maybe an inch, perhaps two, between them. Dean turns his head and looks at him, he’s wearing his serious face, and he swallows, licks his lips, all Dean’s tells, all things that are signaling to Ross that his brother’s uncomfortable, that they’re about to have A Serious Conversation.

“Listen,” says Dean, and yeah, Ross is so totally right, Serious Conversations always start this way, with a listen, or a look, or some bullshit meaningless word like that. “You don’t really want this, Ross, you just – I guess you’re so used to me and Sam and all that, that you think you do.”

“How the hell do you know what I want?”

“'Cause I know you,” says Dean.

“Yeah, right, whatever.” 

“No, listen to me,” Dean says, voice all soft and persuasive. He reaches out, cups Ross’s cheek, turning Ross’s face so their eyes meet. “You don’t want this, not really. You’re just, you’re all fucked-up in the head, hell; we all are. But you could have something else, something good, something _real_. This shit – with me, with Sam – it ain’t – it ain’t good, man, it’s _wrong_. You must see that, right?”

He shakes his head, tries to pull away from Dean, getting to his knees to climb off the bed, but Dean’s too fast for him. He fists his fingers in Ross’s shirt and pulls him back in.

“Get off me, Dean!” he grits out, placing his own hand over Dean’s and trying to pry away his brother’s fingers. “You don’t fuckin’ get it! It’s, like, it’s one rule for me and one for Sam, and it’s always like that, always fuckin’ been like that, and you just – “

“Ross, no,” interrupts Dean. “Listen to me! I’m doing you a favor. Don’t you get that? I’m giving you the choice that I never gave Sammy. Me and Sam – we – it’s not something to aspire to, man, it’s not, like, a healthy fucking relationship! You could do so much better, you know. You’re just – you’re my brother, and I want something else for you. Please, just, listen to me…” he trails off, voice cracking up.

Ross swallows, he can feel a lump building in his throat, another fucking lump, and Jesus Christ, is he going to, like, cry? So fucking pathetic.

“What about Sam?” he retorts quickly. “Do you want something else for him? 'Cause I don’t fuckin’ think you do. I think you want the two of you to be fuckin’ BFF or boyfriends or lovers or whatever the fuck you call it. I think that you’d drive off to fuckin’ – fuckin’ Vermont if you could and get gay married, and get a house and a dog and have gay-ass wine and cheese parties! I think that’s what you and Sammy want!”

Dean stares at him, then his mouth crooks, a look of wry amusement ghosting over his face. He shakes his head, exhaling heavily.

“What?” Ross snaps, “What’s so fucking funny?”

“Gay married?” Dean parrots, raising that goddamn eyebrow again. “Wine and cheese parties? In what world could you ever see me and Sam doing that? Christ, dude.” He laughs again and reaches out, tries to ruffle Ross’s hair. “Seriously? Where the fuck are you getting this shit?”

Ross shrugs, scowls at him. “You don’t know what I want. Stop patronizing me, making out like you know what I want. This isn’t some fuckin’ whim. I thought you got that!”

The amusement on Dean’s face vanishes, like a lost TV picture, flickering away, lost to static. His hand slides down from Ross’s hair, cups his face again, his big rough fingers cradling Ross’s cheeks, eyes focusing in on him, and there’s so much affection there, so much _Dean-ness_ that Ross just wants to curl up in it. He wants Dean to put his arms around him and pull him in close and hold him, and then maybe kiss him and stick his hand down his pants and bring him off ‘cause his fucking cock’s waking up again, his brother’s closeness, the warmth from his big, familiar body making his skin tingle and balls throb.

“Hey,” says Dean softly, “I’m gonna tell you something, okay? And this is – this shit, it’s real personal, Littlest Bro. Something I’ve never even told Sam.” His mouth twists and he looks conflicted for a moment, swallowing heavily, before he seems to make up his mind. “’Cause I totally mean it when I say it: you don’t wanna be involved with me – with us – you don’t want that. It’s wrong, kiddo. It’s twisted.”

“Dean."

“No, shut up, listen to me,” Dean continues. “D’you know how old I was when I first – when I first felt something for Sammy? I was seventeen and Sam was thirteen. And you remember, right? You remember what he looked like. And it was – thinking of it now, makes me sick to my stomach. I used to – I _hated_ it, Ross, I hated myself so fuckin’ much. You have no idea, ‘cause that’s sick, you gotta see that that’s sick. Like I was no better than a goddamn pedophile."

“You’re not a pedophile,” he interrupts, but Dean stops him, grabs his shoulder, squeezes hard, his expression crumpled-up, like paper, like he's a wax dummy that's just been thrown on the fire, like he’s freaking _melting_ …

“Ross, listen to me! You’re not hearing what I’m saying: I was fucked in the head, way worse than a child-molester, ‘cause this was my own brother, this was _Sammy_ , and I was popping wood over him, over Sam, when I saw him in the shower, and that’s sick, that’s totally fuckin’ sick…” he breaks off, swallows, ducking his head, voice coming out all cracked and painful: “there’s no way you can tell me that that’s okay, ‘cause it ain’t okay. No fuckin’ way.”

There’s a part of him that’s perversely fascinated by what Dean’s saying. He’s always wondered about Dean and Sam, wondered about exactly how it was and when it was that they started this fucked-up shit. He was fifteen when he first caught them together, and Sammy was sixteen, Dean twenty-one, the day of his twenty-first birthday of course. Ross knew, he could tell from what he saw on that day that what they were doing - _making out_ with each other, jerking each other off - wasn’t a new thing between them, that the way they were acting with each other, how fucking _familiar_ they seemed to be with each other had to mean that the fucked-up shit had been going on a while. So he got to wondering, couldn’t help himself: six months, one year, two years… How long? Anything seemed possible at the time.

And Sam was always so much older than he looked. He looked the same age as Ross for most of their childhood, every motherfucker mistaking them for fucking twins, but Sam was way different to him. Sam was a fucking enigma, kept himself so close, never gave anything away unless he had to. Sam loved his precious secrets, it was why all this shit with Dean must’ve been so goddamn irresistible to him, one huge enormous secret kept between just him and his favorite brother, something to hide from Ross and Dad, Sammy would've been all over that. And he got that, got why Sam wanted Dean, but he never really got why Dean wanted Sam back, just what it was about Sam that was so fucking special. He can remember Dean at seventeen, can remember how big, how strong he was, how much he wanted to be just like him, how much in _awe_ he was of him. How jealous he was when Dad and Dean used to sit at the table, drinking beer, playing cards, while he and Sam were relegated to the couch to watch TV, or sent to bed. Dean and Dad discussing hunts, Dean coming back from a poker game with a roll of bills, Dad slapping him on the back with a: “Good game?” and Dean’s nod and smirk, “Yes, sir,” dropping the bills to the table to see Dad’s smile.

He wanted that: wanted to be that so much. And yet… all that time, Dean wanted Sam. Sam who would curl up on the couch with a text-book like the king of the geeks, sulk in the back of the Impala ‘cause they’d been pulled out of school again. Sam who cried like a girl when Dad said there wasn’t room in the trunk for that freaking Clue board game he’d found in the closet of one of their rental houses and gotten obsessed with. He’d been so upset about that that Dad bought him a shitty Travel Scrabble game at a gas station, tossing it into the back seat with a jumbo bag of Peanut M&M’s when they stopped for gas. Sam’s face lit up like a torched corpse at that, challenged both Dean and him to games for freaking months afterwards, of course, he always beat them, ‘cause Sammy was just that much of a nerd.

Dean drops his head into his hands and sighs, passing his hand over his face in that way that makes his stubble scrape against his ring.

He grits his teeth, reaches out to pull Dean’s hands away from his face, curl his fingers around Dean’s wrists to hold them in place.

“Quit hiding,” he says firmly, hoping that he sounds like Dad now, all no-nonsense and _stop feelin’ sorry for yourself, boy_. “You ain’t saying nothing I ain’t thought before,” he says matter-of-factly. Dean looks confused for a second, his face sort of blotchy and red from where he’s be pressing his fingers into his skin. “I always assumed you and Sammy must’ve started screwing around when he was about that age. Like fourteen, fifteen, whatever.”

Dean looks shocked, and that is so much like Dean, so caught up in his own head and his own guilt that he can’t see the big picture. “Ross – he was _fourteen_ , when we first kissed. Fourteen! Doesn’t that disgust you?”

Ross shrugs, “Yeah, sure, I guess it used to. But got no moral high ground now, right? And, hey, whatever, man, you so need to get over this. This is Sam we’re talking about. No freakin’ way would he ever let you take advantage or nothing, he’s like the most stubborn asshole in the history of forever. You know how he is.”

Dean doesn’t answer, purses his lips, pulling his hands out of Ross’s grasp. Ross watches him climb of the bed in silence, turn his back on him.

“Dean, c’mon, you know I’m right.”

Dean’s still quiet, still with his back to Ross, shoulders going up and down as if he’s breathing heavily. He strides towards the counter, the worktop with the cracked coffee pot, black dregs from this morning still sitting there, gathering mold, because none of them have been bothered to clean them up or make fresh. Though admittedly, they’ve all been too busy fighting or trying to fuck each other to think about coffee.

Dean grabs onto the edges of the worktop, drops his head, shoulders braced. Ross watches him and kinda wants to laugh, it’s all so dramatic.

“Look, Deano, man, I know what you’re doing. I know you’re, like, tryin’ to put me off, for my own good. You’re so transparent,” he says.

Dean’s head dips and his shoulders sag some. He turns around, leans back against the counter, folds his arms, this totally defensive pose.

“So, you ain’t gonna listen to me,” he says flatly. “Whatever I say. I should’ve known.”

Ross shakes his head, “Nuh-uh. If this is just about you trying to turn me against you, then no, ain’t gonna happen. And all this shit that’s been going on between us, like I fuckin’ told you, dude, I want it. I can’t just force it all away ’cause it’s no longer _convenient_ to you, 'cause it makes you feel guilty. And you can’t keep denying me like this. It ain’t fair.”

“Yes I can,” says Dean, and this time he sounds more forceful, voice getting stronger, eyes finally meeting Ross’s. “I’m not doing this anymore. You and me – we’re just gonna go back to being brothers, like we’re meant to be.”

“Dean."

“ _I said no, Ross!_ ”

Ross flinches, frozen under the force of his brother’s voice, his glare, the slam of his fist on the edge of the work surface.

Dean swallows, takes a couple of steps forward, standing over the tiny table, he leans forward, placing his hands on the back of a chair, fingers wrapping white-knuckled around its back, the dirty, flaking paint. “You and Sam – you can do whatever you want – that’s between the two of you, I don’t – I don’t mind if you decide to... But you and me. Ross, kiddo, I can’t do it anymore, it’s wrong and it’s just – it’s fucking you up and I want something better for you. So, please, don’t ask me again, 'cause I ain’t gonna change my mind.”

Slowly, he raises his eyes to Ross, pink and watery; he looks devastated, he’s pleading with him. And he – what’s he supposed to say to that? _Yes, okay, Dean, whatever you want, I’m suddenly going to stop getting hard when I brush up against you, I’m going to stop thinking about you when I jerk off, 'cause, yeah, Dean, it’s just that goddamn easy…_

The silence is finally broken by a phone; the opening bars of Paranoid, _Black Sabbath_ , he thinks blankly. Dean’s phone.

Dean curses under his breath, sighs and reaches forward onto the table to pick it up. He looks down at the display. “Sam,” he mutters, meeting Ross’s eyes for a fraction of a second.

Ross nods, bites his lip and lowers his head. Maybe he should cry, perhaps that would change Dean’s mind? He can hear Dean talking to Sam in the background, he sounds normal, like they’re discussing the case. So, yeah… he could cry, get Dean’s sympathy, his love, again. He used to do that trick when he was younger, and it never failed, at least it never failed with Dean. Dean was a total pushover when it came to tears and snot and blubbery little-brother faces. Dean would just crumple under the onslaught and give in to whatever he was asking for: hugs or attention or mini Mars bars. Dad was an entirely different matter. Dad would wrinkle his nose, ignore him, making cutting remarks about cry-babies and what happened to kids who acted like that when he was in the Service. So, he soon stopped, only crying two maybe three times after he passed the age of twelve. And all those times: well, that was Dean and Sam of course, seeing them, catching them, knowing about them…

Things really do never fucking change.

Dean snaps his phone closed and gives him a considering look.

“You okay?” he asks. He sounds genuinely concerned, and he’s not sure whether it makes things better or worse. But he’s Ross freaking Winchester and he doesn’t need sympathy, and he’s not going to cry.

“Course I’m fuckin’ okay,” he retorts.

Dean nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Look – this – whatever, let’s just forget about it for now – cause, dude, we really gotta work this case.”

“Happy to,” he snaps.

“Right,” Dean says. “Well, Sammy’s found something. That bitch from the bar, turns out she’s the one who’s been summoning the daevas.”

 

 

 

 

*******

 

 

There’s a part of Sam that genuinely believes they’re not going to find Dad. Dad doesn’t want to be found. Dad is a good, no, Dad is a _great_ hunter. If Dad doesn’t want to be found, he _won’t_ be. Period.

Dean unlocks the motel room door and freezes.

“Hey!”

There’s a person – a guy – a shape – standing on the other side of the room, shadow framed by the windows.

Ross doesn’t freeze. He pushes past both of them, because their little brother’s seen something he and Dean haven’t, and that’s when Sam hears his voice.

“Ross. My boy.”

And it’s Dad. The guy – shape – person…

Dad.

Dean’s breath hitches and he makes that sound in the back of his throat that he makes just before he comes, that slight hiccupping, choking sound that’s shock and relief and joy, so much fucking joy, and Dean’s crossing the room, too, leaving Sam standing on his own, still by the door. Sam closes the door carefully, concentrating completely on the action, tongue darting out to wet his lips as his eyes drag reluctantly and disbelievingly back to the scene in front of him.

Dad. It’s Dad. 

Sam still can’t see him properly, still can’t really see his face, but his shape, his stance, it’s just –

It’s _so_ Dad. So freaking much like him. He’s big and strong and he’s wearing a massive coat that if Sam thinks hard enough he can probably remember. But he’s not sure and it’s dark, too many shadows in this room obscuring them all.

The three of them are hugging it out. Dean’s face split wide with the force of his smile, such real perfect happiness that’s making Sam’s guts churn up. And Ross – he’s refusing to let Dad go, arm caught around Dad’s shoulders, face lit up, eyes roaming over Dad like he’s devouring him, like he’s never going to let go.

But then Ross was always Dad’s favorite, and Ross always loved Dad best.

Sam swallows and he knows he has to say something. He can feel his father’s eyes on him, dark like Ross’s, waiting him out. Dad and his mind games.

“Hello, Sammy,” Dad says at last.

Sam swallows again and nods, stiff and unsure, trying to find the words, get his tongue and lips moving once more: “Hello, Dad.”

There’s a stiff moment of silence, then Dean starts talking, Ross interjecting, the two of them babbling, saying sorry, that they didn’t realize it was a trap, that they didn’t know she was there for him – for Dad – _Jesus, Dad’s here_ – that Meg’s dead…

“Saw her take a swan dive off that building. She’s dead, right?” Dad says.

“Yes, sir.” He finds himself answering in unison with his brothers, no thought put into it, just oral memory, instinct… The three of them together again: _yes, sir_. It’s uncanny, automatic and brain-washed, like he’s twelve years old all over again.

Dad nods, short and abrupt. “It knows I’m close. That’s why it tried to stop me, why it went after you three. It knows I’m gonna kill it.”

“Kill it? You can’t kill a demon,” says Dean.

Dad chuckles - he has so many versions of that laugh. But this version is the superior, experienced hunter one. 

“You can,” he says darkly, “you just need the right weapon, and I’m gettin’ close to it.”

“Let us help you,” interrupts Ross.

He sounds like an eager, enthusiastic kid, and Sam has a flash memory: Ross’s screwed up sulky face, _let us come with you, Dad, I want to come with you, I want to fight the evil sonsofbitches_ , and Dad’s fond, approving chuckle, _not till you’re thirteen, son._

Ross always knew what to say with Dad to stay on his good side. Dad would never have said those words to Ross: _If you walk out that door, don’t you ever think about coming back…_

Sam flinches, pushes the thought aside, listens to Dad speak. 

“No, not this time, son. This is no ordinary demon; this is one scary son of a bitch. I’m not going to put you boys in danger.”

And he can’t help it, but he’s already thinking, no, that makes no sense, Dad. He can’t just blindly accept what Dad is saying like Dean and Ross are. The two of them nodding reluctantly, twin adoring stares rooted on their father’s face, two beloved soldiers devoted to their commander. But, they’ve been in danger for over a year, they’ve been hunting together for over a year. Dad’s the one who’s been sending coordinates, getting his buddies to call with jobs. If that isn’t danger, then what is? And he can’t help it, maybe it’s just him, his twisted self, always having to contradict, to over-analyze like Dean says, to see the flaw in everything, but someone has to say something because Ross and Dean sure won't.

He feels a familiar surge of bitterness well up. This isn’t just Dad’s fight, this isn’t just about Dad, and it isn’t just about Mom, not anymore. This demon, this no ordinary demon, this is the sonofabitch that killed _Jessica_. >

“Dad, no,” he says, and he feels three sets of eyes spin his way and fix on him. “This isn’t just your fight, sir. We can help you, we can back you up. You need to let us come along with you.”

He doesn’t need to look at his brothers to recognize the looks on their faces, the wide eyes and uh-oh this again expressions. But this is not about Dean or Ross. This is him and Dad and the demon who killed Jess.

Dad’s eyes are dark. Sam can’t see the expression on his face, but his tone is flat. “No, Sammy.”

“God, Dad, no, don’t worry about us, we’ve been hunting on our own for months. We can handle it.”

“I said no, Sam. I’m not putting you in danger. None of you. I’m your father and you will listen to me.”

Sam clamps his mouth shut. Nothing changes. Nothing has changed. He doesn’t listen. Doesn’t care. This is the same guy who gave him that ultimatum, who threw him out just because he didn’t conform, the guy who said those words: _If you’re going then don’t you ever come back…_

He swallows, ducks his head. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him. He knows that if he looks up, sees his brother’s face then his eyes will be wide and sympathetic and that the urge to kiss him, to _out_ the two of them in front of their father will be overwhelming. The urge to give his Dad the big fuck-you, to fucking _show_ him: this is Dean, this is who he really is, Dad, this is me-and-Dean, and you can push me away, you can keep us in the dark and play your stupid fucking games, but it doesn’t change a thing, because I have Dean and I love him and he loves me in ways that brothers really shouldn’t love each other.

The urge to do this, to throw it all in his Dad’s face, to commit some crazy, kamikaze action that will have him disowned for the rest of his life is stupidly tempting. But Dad speaks up, his voice softer, quieter, conciliatory. “Sammy, that was one helluva fight we had last time I saw you.”

“Yes, sir,” he responds. He can’t help it, it’s automatic and he’s been too well-conditioned.

“Sure is good to see you now, son,” says Dad.

Dad strides towards him, hesitates, then they’re embracing, Dad’s arms around him. He feels like crying, all the anger and resentment melting away. How many years since Dad held him, touched him? He doesn’t remember. A long time. It feels strange. He feels uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want to let go, wants to hold on for forever.

Dad lets him go and runs his hand over his beard, and that’s Dad, weary and tired, and worn-out and about to walk out the door. Another day, another hunt, exchanging a look with Dean, over his and Ross’s heads: _Look after your brothers Dean; Sammy, Ross, you boys be good for your brother._

“I’m sorry about your girl,” says Dad and Sam’s not expecting that. Dad sounds genuine and sincere. He can feel his eyes blur over, tears, Dad’s here and he’s talking about Jess. Dad never met Jess. He was going to marry her and Dad never even met her.

He nods, he can’t look up. Can’t meet Dad’s gaze, doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to see the sympathy and understanding there, because Dad knows this sort of pain, losing the person you love. Except he hasn’t thought about Jess in days, and Dad thinks about Mom every single day.

So… not the same.

He feels someone shift close, knows from the movements, the rustle of clothes, that it’s Dean. Standing beside him, hand out, reassuring squeeze of his arm. Dean.

And that’s when the daevas come back.

He doesn’t think, sees Dad thrown against the wall, hears Ross’s cry, sees the blood running down his youngest brother’s face. He grabs for his bag, the room’s too dark, the shadows just flickering sharp and deadly. He reaches for the flare, pulls the peg and throws it blindly, flare of orange and white light in his eyes, blinding them all.

He feels someone’s hands in his jacket – Dean? Ross? Dad? Has no way of seeing, too busy covering his face, choking on the smoke. He stumbles over his feet, dragging his duffle behind him as they cough and splutter into the corridor, and finally to the fire-escape, shouts and screams of the motel’s other occupants. It would probably be funny if he could see any of them, but he can’t, eyes streaming and mouth dry and scratchy.

 

Outside in the street, Dean stops Dad, puts his hand on his shoulder. “Dad, you should go, you should leave. It ain’t safe.”

Dad looks torn but he nods. He puts his other hand on Dean’s shoulder, looks into his face: white and torn, bloody and scratched. Sam swallows, watches his brother’s face – that defeated hopeful expression – the kind of facial juxtaposition that only Dean can do.

“No! No, wait, Dad, don’t listen to him!”

Sam turns, sees Ross stumble forward, pleading mouth, fingers latching into Dad’s jacket. His eyes scrunch up, watery from the smoke, blood trickling down one cheek.

“We should be together, Dad. Don’t leave! Please!” Ross begs.

“Ross,” Dean says. He moves away from Dad, curls his fingers around Ross’s arm, makes to pull him away. Ross shakes him off, doesn’t turn around, eyes locked on Dad’s face.

Sam watches, he feels curiously blank, disengaged from this family drama. He wants their father to go, agrees with Dean, knows it’s not safe, the goddamn daevas just proved that, but – this is _Dad_ and they were _getting somewhere_. For the first time in his life, his Dad seemed to be on his level, to _get_ him. They have something in common now, both of them losing people they love. And it should bring them together, but he feels like a fraud, because he doesn't think he feels about Jess as Dad still feels about their mom.

He pushes back the thought, concentrates on the scene unfolding in front of him, the one he should be a part of.

“Your brother’s right,” Dad says.

Dad's eyes lock on Ross, and quickly, abruptly he pulls him in. He folds Ross into his body, practically wrapping him into that enormous coat. Ross’s fingers white knuckled where they clutch at their father’s shirt.

Then he pulls away, stalks, two, three steps, towards his truck. Sam feels his stomach knot up, sees the anguish on Ross’s face when Dad’s truck growls away. Tick of genuine grief at the corner of Ross's mouth, face wet and shiny with tears and blood. There’s a piece of his youngest brother that’s breaking right now, and Sam's just standing on the sidelines and watching it happen.

Dean pulls Ross back into his body, the two of them stumbling together, thrusting and jostling against each other, until Ross shoves Dean aside. Ross spins around to confront Dean, accusing him, “ _You_ told him to leave! Why’d you do that Dean?”

“It was for the best.”

“Bullshit! Bull! Shit! Stop lying Dean! Stop fuckin’ lying for once in your goddamn life!”

Ross is screaming, chest heaving, red face and red blood trickling down his left cheek.

Dean is frozen, not breathing, white face and matching trickles of red blood on both cheeks, a beautiful but gruesome symmetry.

“You sent him away! You did that, Dean!" 

Sam can’t just watch this any longer. He steps forward, but Dean’s too quick, his arm flashes out, an obvious signal, a warning: a _back off, Sam, I’ve got it._

Dean always has it.

This time Ross gives in to the inevitable, lets Dean hold him up, folds himself into Dean and sobs. With a wrench, Sam thinks of another different back alley, nearly a year ago now, only it was himself in Dean’s arms, sobbing out his grief in a back alley in Palo Alto, sobbing out his lost love for Jessica, in Dean’s arms. It wasn’t fake, it didn’t feel fake. It was hurt and numbness and pain, and if he’s brutally honest, then he can’t really remember that hurt anymore. That loss. That memory of love for Jess. He has to pinch that hurt to feel it now, pinching his arm and yeah, it hurts, stab of pain from skin to nerves to brain, but it’s faded.

To pinch that hurt now he has to think of her, conjure up images in his head, like an actor might do when he’s trying to work a scene. He has to think deliberate cold thoughts: what she looked like in the shower, what she looked like the first time he saw her at that dude’s party, what she looked like when she used to meet him after her shift at The Coffee Bean. A Jessica for everyday of the week, a Jess for all seasons, but not a real person, not the flesh and blood girl. Not anymore. That’s gone, the memories repressed so far, they’ve slipped away.

Replaced by this.

Dean on his knees with Ross in his arms, blood smeared across his forehead, staring at Sam over Ross’s head, green eyes stark with love and regret.

And while Dad made his grief for his lost love his mission and his life, Sam went back to banging his brother.

 


	14. Chapter 14

They stop at a gas station eight hours after leaving Chicago.

Sam’s woken up by Ross slamming the passenger side door, Dean shouting: “Mind the damn paintjob!”

He sits up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he watches Ross head for the rest rooms tucked behind the office, shoulders hunched, stride tight and forceful. Dean lets out a long, hissed breath, the sound audible over the cooling engine.

Sam watches him turn around, lift the nozzle of the gas pump and slot it into place at the back of the car, the metallic click-clack sound as familiar as his brother’s breathing. Dean wanders round to the side of the car, leans against it, head upturned to let the sun spill over his face; he looks tired, small smears of blood still crusted to his temples and jaw where he hastily wiped it away, the butterfly band-aid Sam applied across his left cheek looking crooked after eight straight hours on the road.

Sam slides out the backseat, stretches out long, cramped limbs, feeling the welcome warmth of the mid morning sun on the back of his shoulders. Dean turns to look at him and Sam gives him a faint smile. Dean’s lip twitches in acknowledgement and he goes back to contemplating the spinning digits on the gas pump.

“Fuckin’ gas prices,” he bitches. It’s an old complaint, half-hearted at best, and really just Dean breaking the silence.

Sam moves to slide his arms around him, but Dean stiffens, the contact evidently unwelcome.

“Sam –“ he starts to say.

“Shut up,” Sam says quietly, “c’mere, I want to touch you.”

Dean hesitates, then the stiffness suddenly evaporates from his body as he all but sags against Sam, head falling onto his shoulder, hands coming up to smooth over his shoulder blades. Sam sighs out happily and pulls him in closer, strokes one hand over his short, bristled hair. This kind of contact is rare between them, even now when Dean is much less reluctant to touch him in public, when Dean’s happy for him to slide his hand into the back pocket of his jeans or pull him into an embrace, or even kiss him in someplace other than the car, a motel room or a men’s bathroom.

Sam moans out softly into Dean’s hair, feels Dean shift and shudder against him, almost as if he’s letting go, letting Sam hold him up and take care of him for once. It’s becoming less and less rare: Dean surrendering control to him, ever since Ross found out about them, since the visions, since Dad, _God_ , since all this shit between the three of them, this past awful, incredible year…

There’s a part of Sam that likes this – being in charge, being the one to take care of Dean - in fact, he’s pretty happy to do exactly that. Dean’s always had to take on too much, ever since he was a kid, he’s always had this epic weight of responsibility, and he and Ross have always taken it for granted, assumed that Dean would figure out a way of paying for everything, Dean would turn up in the nick of time to rescue their asses, Dean would lie to school administrators for them, Dean would solve all their problems, have their backs. And Dean… well, he’s always done exactly that, gotten on with it, done what’s best for them, but it’s Sam’s turn to step up now, to take on some of Dean’s burden, to be the one to take control.

“You know, it’s gonna be okay, Dean. He’ll be okay,” he says reassuringly.

“What makes you so sure of that?”

“C’mon, this is Dad. He’s a great hunter; he knows how to look after himself.”

“Dad?” Dean sounds surprised. He pulls away slightly, tilts his head back to look up at Sam. “I wasn’t thinking about Dad.”

In the background, the pump clicks off, gas tank full, shuddering sound of the pump dying away, making everything quieter without the whirring background clanking. _Who were you…_ he starts to think, but the answer’s obvious, glaringly obvious.

“Ross?” he says.

Dean’s mouth screws up unhappily and he tenses, shoulders hitching, fingers losing their grip on Sam, like he’s preparing himself to bolt. But Sam’s not gonna let him do that, he’s enjoying this contact way too much, enjoying the feeling of Dean against him, leaning on him, needing him, so he pulls him in tighter, claims him, strokes his fingers over the nape of Dean’s neck in a soothing gesture. Once again Dean puts up a token resistance before he gives in, pressing back against Sam, breath coming warm and clammy against Sam’s neck.

“Did something happen between you and Ross?” Sam asks.

From this angle, he can make out the top of Dean’s head and one side of his face, his ear and temple, the soft, fine lines around the one unhidden eye. He sees a muscle jump at the corner of Dean’s jaw, his mouth shaping into a grimace.

“I don’t wanna talk about this, Sam,” he says.

“Okay,” he says equably.

Even from this angle Sam can tell that Dean’s surprised, he cards his fingers through Dean’s short hair, Dean looks up, their eyes meeting, Sam gives him a disarming grin causing Dean to roll his eyes and jostle him. “You sure? Not like you to give in so easily.”

Sam shrugs, “I figure you’ll tell me when you want to. If it’s important.”

“Right,” Dean snorts.

Sam smiles at him and leans down, presses their foreheads together. “Kiss me,” he says.

Dean exhales, breath ghosting over Sam’s lips as Sam’s hands slide up to cup his jaw, tilting his face into a perfect position, thumbs resting on his cheekbones, his big hands cradling the entirety of Dean’s face, he leans down, brings their mouths together. They kiss for a while, though it doesn’t seem nearly long enough to Sam, but Dean’s pulling away from him already. Sam glances up, looks across the forecourt, over Dean’s shoulder, sees Ross standing outside the men’s room, cigarette in hand, eyes locked on them. He can’t read his younger brother’s expression from this distance, but he knows what it would be, and he feels a sudden stab of guilt, of anger and resentment – at this – this impossible, stupid situation.

He watches Ross throw his butt away, grind it out viciously with the heel of his boot, stomp across the forecourt towards them. Dean tenses up again, pulls away from Sam with a jerk, turning to meet Ross’s eyes.

“We ready to go?” Ross barks out, not looking either of them in the face.

Dean lets Sam bully him into the backseat, telling him that he needs a break, that Sam can take over driving. Dean gives in after some cursory grumbling while Ross takes shotgun, sulking and silent as he stares out the window. Dean’s out after only ten minutes, soft hiccupping snores threading through from the backseat. Sam watches him in the mirror while they wait at a red light, sees the slack, restful look to his face, cradled between the backseat and one of the windows, cheek pressed up against his old hoodie which seems to live in the backseat these days for that purpose, not that Sam ever wants to wear it again, thing’s had more drool on it than a dog’s favorite chew toy.

He nudges Ross, “Hey, you wanna put the radio on? Listen to something other than mullet rock for once?”

Ross turns his head to look at him and shrugs impassively, “If you want.”

“Cool,” says Sam with a nod. “You can pick.”

“Nah, you do it.”

It’s kinda shocking; Ross always has an opinion and he’s always wrestled for control of the radio dial like he’s wrestled for control of everything else in his life. Not that’s he’s ever succeeded, not with the radio at least, because that’s Dean’s baby.

Sam pulls them into a motel only three hours later. He’s exhausted and both Dean and Ross are asleep again, none of them have had a proper night’s sleep since… shit, since before Chicago at least. Before Meg and the daevas. Before Dad…

He kills the engine and leans over to tousle Ross’s hair, shake him awake. Ross blinks his eyes open and scowls at him. “Fuck off,” he slurs.

“We’re stopping,” says Sam. “For the night. Go get us a room, I’ll wake Dean.”

Dean’s so tired he’s almost staggering as they follow Ross into the room, shoulder knocking against Sam’s.

“You got us a king?” Sam asks in disbelief, halting by the door, bag slung over his shoulder.

“All there was,” shrugs Ross nonchalantly. “There’s a couch, too. So, you know, if you don’t want all three of us to bunk up together, then you can always take that, Sammy.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence until Dean growls out: “I’ll take the couch.”

Sam nods, throws his duffle onto the bed. Ross looks after Dean for a second, teeth gritted together, until he too growls out, “Fine, whatever.”

He thinks he gets it now, what’s going on, or what’s gone on between Ross and Dean. Dean must’ve said something, refused him, turned him down, and Ross, well, naturally Littlest Bro doesn’t like that.

 

 

He sleeps heavily for about six hours, wakes to hear the soft sound of Ross breathing next to him, Dean’s snores from the couch. He heaves out a sigh, twists onto his side, immediately freezing when he sees Ross’s face, eyes open, glinting eerily in the dark, fixed on him.

“You’re awake,” he hisses.

“Duh,” whispers Ross.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

Ross’s mouth twists into an irritable shape, “Can’t sleep.”

“Oh, sorry ‘bout that, man.”

“Whatever.” Ross closes his eyes, huffs out an irritated breath.

Sam regards him for moment, the slight flutter of his eyelashes, the unhappy tense curl to his lips, his dark hair mussed by sleep, he’s been letting it grow out, refused to get it cut the last time Dean did his own, and it’s grown out some, half-way between his own and Dean’s in length now, curling around his ears, making him look younger and the two of them look even more alike. He reaches out; touches it gingerly, fingertips running over the dark, feathery ends, Ross’s eyes snap open, fix on him.

“Watcha doin’, Sammy?”

“Just – shhh, relax,” he whispers, “I’m tryin’ to help you relax. So you can sleep.”

Ross gives him a wary look, but he doesn’t flinch when Sam touches him again, keeps his eyes locked on Sam’s face. It’s kinda unnerving, the way Ross has to keep his eyes open when they touch, when they kiss, always has to be there, in the moment, witnessing the moment.

“I think I like it like this,” he tells him, “your hair.”

Ross’s mouth goes all wry, a knowing glint seeping into his expression, and Sam feels a sudden burst of affection for him, it’s all so familiar – so _Ross_ , that look on his face, the smart-ass little punk look – Sam knows that so well, recognizes it as something so fundamental to his brother. Ross is such a bundle of defense mechanisms, master of the preemptive strike, the instinctive defensive move, ready to shout back rather than actually listen, always expecting to hear or see the worst in anything, so much like Dad in that respect.

Ross was rejected by Dean; Sam knows that for sure now. He saw it in how awkward they were together, in Ross’s unhappy, sulky attitude in the car.

“What?” he asks, a smile tugging at his lips, “why you lookin’ at me like that?”

Ross just raises one eyebrow – his Dean look as Sam privately labels it – and smirks at him. “You like my hair like this 'cause it makes me look more like you.”

A prickle edges up his spine, skin tingling hot in the places where they’re almost touching. “Maybe,” he admits.

Ross’s smile gets wider, eviler, even more Dean-like and Sam can feel his cock wake up, start to thicken, heat boiling in his gut.

“Yeah, maybe,” scoffs Ross. “It turns you on, don’t it? You’re such a fuckin’ narcissist, Sammy.”

“Narcissist?” Sam repeats, amused, he never thought his brother knew such words.

Ross’s lip curls again, and his hand darts out, bracelets Sam’s wrist with strong fingers, he pulls Sam’s hand under the covers, pressing it up against the hard outline of his cock through his cotton shorts.

“If you wanna help me sleep, you can take care of that,” he says.

There’s a note of a challenge in his tone, and Sam feels his throat go dry, a tingle of gooseflesh, his cock getting really hard now.

Dean rejected Ross, he knows that, knows that this is what this has all been about, what this is all about. But he also knows what it’s like to be on the end of Dean’s 'No', it happened so frequently when they were younger: Dean pinging between devil-may-care, live-for-the-moment big brother who knew he was doing the wrong thing but just didn’t give a shit, to crippled by guilt and self-loathing big brother who hated himself more than anything and couldn’t bear the sight of his little brother, the face of his ultimate temptation.

Sam lived Dean’s guilt, saw it first hand, heard enough of the “no, we can’t” and the “not anymore, we gotta stop”, and the “please, Sammy, no, not this time” pleas to know how Ross feels. The only thing he’s grateful for right now, the only fucking good thing in their current shitty existence is that Dean’s finally gotten over all that, come to terms with what they have, accepted that Sam is his and he is Sam’s for the rest of their lives and that no crisis of conscience is powerful enough to make those feelings go away.

He doesn’t honestly know if Ross feels what he used to feel for Dean: that surety and belief, the burning need and disregard for everything else except having his big brother, but he does know that to have the person you love more than any other tell you no can rip the skin off your body, leave you exposed and vulnerable in a way that nothing else can.

And then there’s everything with Dad…

So, yeah… maybe this is compassion, maybe this is his own guilty conscience, his fucked-up way of saying sorry to his younger brother for all those years of rivalry and rejection, or maybe this is just because his cock is hard and Ross has all the right bits in all the right places and he looks and feels really fucking good and hell, Sam’s just fucking kinky enough to want it.

He raises his eyes again, meets Ross’s gaze, Ross smirks, mouth curling upwards, cocky and self-assured once more, defensive prickliness melting away in the face of Sam’s obvious acquiescence. His fingers tighten their grip on Sam’s hand, pressing Sam’s palm down harder against his cock, Sam flexes his fingers, drags them over his brother’s sac, the soft vulnerable flesh, hears Ross’s sharp intake of breath, and it’s his own turn to smirk, do the Dean look. He cups his fingers around his brother’s balls, feeling the weight in his hand; he shifts closer, bringing their bodies up flush, their thighs bumping together.

Ross doesn’t say anything, eyes still completely focused on him, but Sam watches the ripple of his throat, the hitch of his breath and he knows that Ross wants this – wants him. He leans in, Ross’s breath tight and warm against his cheek, and starts to work his hand up and down his brother’s cock, fingers dry and rough, just how Ross likes it.

 

 

***********************

 

 

Dean’s dreaming about Sam. Sam’s young in the dream, maybe twelve, thirteen, though Dean still seems to be his current age, his hands, his body when he glances down seem the same, he’s even wearing the torn grey Henley he’s had on all day. He and Sammy – young twelve year old Sammy – are in a bathroom somewhere, perhaps Bobby Singer’s place, the room seems familiar in a way that none of the motel rooms or rentals or squat places they ever lived in were, it’s somewhere they’ve been more than once, somewhere they know and feel comfortable in. He’s sitting on the lid of the closed toilet, hands resting demurely on his lap, and Sam – young Sammy - is looming over him, holding a razor, his eyes wide and solemn as he says gravely, “You need a shave, Dean; you should let me shave you.”

He nods at Sammy, agreeing, Sam grins suddenly, flashes him that brief, dazzling smile of his, and places his small hand on Dean’s jaw, pushes his head back so his neck is bared.

“Keep still,” he says, voice going serious again.

Dean watches him closely as Sam leans over him, he’s got his lip caught between his teeth as he lathers up Dean’s face, and he looks so solemn, so focused, that crease between his eyebrows that means he’s concentrating heavily – the Sammy thinking face that hasn’t changed in twelve years..

He wakes up before Sam gets to touch his face with the razor and thinks, _of course, this is how it is_. He raises his hand to his face and feels the stubble against his fingers. Everything seems suddenly clear to him, everything he’s done, everything that’s happening now: Dad, Ross, Sam, himself – it’s all overwhelmingly clear, though he can’t see just how it’s so clear, the dream already fading from his mind, the clarity of that moment – the moment Dream Sammy put his hand on Dean’s face and pushed his head back – already evaporating from his memory, taking that absolute clarity with it.

He blinks his eyes open and realizes what’s awoken him: there are sounds coming from the big king bed, low whispering and a shifting and rustling of bodies and bedding, a slight creak of the mattress and tight, heavy breathing sounds that make his skin start to prickle, blood start to pump faster, because he recognizes those sounds. There’s a closed-off choking noise, a whimpering gasp that he _knows_ – his stomach lurches again and he hears the quiet, intimate whispering again, the bitten off, muffled laugh.

He sits up, says loudly: “You finished?”

There’s a deathly moment of silence then a pair of dark, tousled heads appear from under the comforter, two pairs of slanted eyes glittering in the dark fix on him.

“Dean…” says Sam, and his tone is wary, guilty, caught-out-right-now.

“Were you watchin’?” demands Ross, no wariness or guilt in his voice. “Or listening?”

“You weren’t exactly quiet,” he says.

“Whatever, like you weren’t totally gettin’ off on it.”

He feels the heat rush to his face, a tell-tale flush, and he can feel his cock twitch at the accusation, because he can’t deny that this – the thought of Sam and Ross fooling around under the covers – it makes something stir in his gut, but he’s not going to admit that, not admit any weakness in front of Ross, not now.

He swallows, barks out: “Go to sleep!”

He throws himself back onto the couch, shifting onto his side, putting his back to them, trying to forget the knowing look on his youngest brother’s face.

“Hey, if you want me to come on over there and help you out, you only need to say so, big bro,” Ross calls out.

Keeping his back to them, Dean raises his arm, gives them the finger.

Ross laughs out loud, “Sonofabitch is sexually frustrated. You should take care of that, Sam.”

“You should _go to fuckin’ sleep_!” growls out Dean.

He hears the sound of one of them hitting the mattress, more rustling and shuffling sounds, an irritable hiss from Sam followed by Ross’s snap of a laugh. He sighs heavily, shifts onto his back and sits up again, he needs a fucking cigarette.

He can feel both sets of eyes on him as he heads outside, leather jacket thrown on over his bare torso, bare feet crammed into his unlaced boots. He closes the motel room door behind them, it’s one of those rooms that opens straight out onto the parking lot and he walks the few yards towards the Impala – his girl. He leans up against it, the metal practically freezing against his almost bare ass, the thin cotton of his boxers not doing much to keep him warm. He shivers and gets his cigarettes out his pocket, lights up quickly.

So Sam and Ross were fooling around, behind his back, like, literally behind his back, while he was asleep. How long has this been going on? Was this the first time since he and Ross had had their little talk? Or have they been doing this before? When he wasn’t around? Catching these little moments together. God, but he’s sounding as paranoid as Dad, and really, what the fuck does it matter, anyway? It’s not like he and Ross haven’t done shit without Sam knowing, or he and Sam doing shit without Ross knowing… that was going for years, except, no, it wasn’t, because Ross knew all along.

Whatever. If Sam and Ross want to fool around together then that’s their issue, their thing, nothing to do with him.

But, seriously, Sammy and Ross? Without him? He can’t – there’s part of him that’s just not processing this, that can’t get his head around it. Sam and Ross don’t get on, they fight if they’re left in a room together for longer than thirty minutes, though, okay, that’s maybe an exaggeration, but Sam and Ross together –

He swallows, flicks the ash from his cigarette to the damp concrete. Sure, he’s seen them together, has _instigated_ it, that first time - telling Sam to suck off Ross, that was him - and other times, plenty of other times, watching the two of them make out and screw around, always riding that borderline, like something’s just fizzing away under the surface of them, waiting to ignite into furious fucking or equally furious fist-fighting. He’s thought about them too, when he’s jerked off in the shower, when he’s fisted his hand around his cock and told them to do it again.

And they are doing it again. Without him.

He tosses away his finished butt and goes back into the room. It seems dark after the lit-up parking lot, the bed just a big shape of lumpen bodies, and he can’t make out if they’re curled up together or are two separate lumps, the thought that they might be curled up together, that after they’ve jerked each other off, they gonna – what – cuddle? Sam and Ross? Yeah, sure. But still, the thought makes something unfurl nastily in the pit of his stomach and he clamps back on it. It’s ludicrous for him to feel… resentful? Angry? Shit, _jealous_? They’re his brothers and he’s hardly in a position to pass judgment – exactly the words Ross said to him only yesterday, the day before – God, he’s really lost track of time – whatever, he doesn’t get to do that, decide what goes and what doesn’t between Sam and Ross, not after he was the one who started all this crap in the first place.

He closes the door gently, the click of the lock slotting into place. He turns and leans back against it, eyes roaming over the entire room, taking in the usual mess of their duffles and clothes and take out boxes littering the floor, weapons in a pile in the corner. Dad wouldn’t like that, Dad would be seriously pissed with him if he could see the way they were treating their weapons. His eyes flick back to the bed and he freezes for a second, Sam’s staring up at him, unblinking, big-eyed solemn stare that’s freakishly similar to the young Sammy in his dream. Sam smiles at him and waves one of his huge hands, pulling the covers back and patting the mattress beside him.

“C’mere,” he murmurs.

Dean pulls a face at him, irritated, “No thanks,” he bites back.

Sam rolls his eyes, shuffles so he’s leaning on his side, propped up on his elbow. He stretches out one of his long arms, fingers wiggling, “C’mon, c’mere. Plenty of room.”

He hesitates, but Sam smiles once more, and that’s it, he’s done, can’t say no to that face, and Sam knows it, the bitch.

He shrugs off his jacket and boots and pads toward the bed. The mattress dips as he edges onto the bed, Sam shuffling back to Ross’s muffled protests to make room for him, but he’s sliding under the covers quickly, feeling Sam’s arms wrap around him and pull him in closer, his back to Sam’s chest, Sam’s huge hand over his belly. Sam nuzzles into the crook of his neck and he can practically feel the flinch, the curve of Sam’s frown.

“Cigarette smoke, lovely,” Sam comments.

He huffs out a breath, “Should be used to it by now, man.”

“Hmmm, maybe,” murmurs Sam.

The smell or taste or whatever doesn’t seem to be deterring him any, and he’s already opening his mouth, laying soft kisses along Dean’s nape, up into his hairline and across the breadth of his shoulders. Dean shivers, pinpricks of arousal flushing down his skin, making his cock wake up again, Sam’s hand drifting lower, fingers brushing the waistband of his shorts.

“Take ‘em off,” Sam whispers. His fingers caught in the waistband.

“You do it,” Dean retorts.

Sam huffs out a laugh, presses a sloppy kiss to his shoulder and pushes down Dean’s shorts, catching over the curve of his ass, tangling between his thighs. Then Sam’s hand is on his cock, making a fist, thumb dragging over the head. He hitches in a breath, flinching, squirming against Sam, feeling Sam’s own erection riding his ass crack.

“Hey, let me look,” comes the voice from behind them.

Dean twists his head around, sees Ross leaning over Sam, chin hooked on Sam’s shoulder, eyes glued to the place where Sam’s hand is outlined under the covers. Dean pulls a face at him and Ross smirks, leans over and pulls the covers down, exposing their nakedness, his thick, hard cock covered by Sam’s hand, Sam’s legs entwined with his own.

“Thought you’d gotten yours,” Dean says.

Ross shrugs, “No such thing as enough, Deano. Anyway, I wanna watch. Ain’t that my prerogative?”

Dean rolls his eyes, exchanges a look with Sam. Sam’s looking amused, a pink flush to his cheeks, his dark hair plastered to his face with sweat. Ross shifts closer and Dean watches his youngest brother’s hand come around Sam, sliding down to meet Sam’s own, their fingers entwining where they’re touching him.

“Dude,” he starts to say, but the sentence is cut off, Sam using his free hand to turn his face around, their mouths meeting, “Shhh, shut up,” Sam tells him, “let us do this, take care of you.”

“Sam…” but it’s pointless to protest, Sam’s lips, Sam’s tongue are invading his mouth, taking him in a long kiss, so he relaxes, concentrates on this: Sam’s mouth on his, Sam’s hand on his cock, Sam’s body pressed up against his own, covering him from head to toe. He tries to forget that Ross is there too, that this isn’t part of his plan, that this isn’t what they should be doing, that this is wrong.

“Dean,” Sam murmurs, whispering his name into his skin, “Dean, Dean, Dean…”

And if Sam’s voice becomes mixed with Ross’s, then it’s not his fault. He closes his eyes and just goes with it.

 

 

 

The last time the three of them shared a bed, he was in the middle, this time Sam has that place. He still wakes first, though, shuffles out the door for a cigarette, and he’s not surprised when Ross joins him, suffering from serious bed-head, hand outstretched to prize the smoking cigarette from between Dean’s fingers.

“See,” Ross says after he takes a long, long drag on Dean’s cigarette, little punk. “You don’t have to be all freakin’ moral about everything, shit can work out between the three of us.” He tilts his head, gives Dean a sideways look, a quirk of his lip, “I can be good.”

Dean snorts, takes the cigarette back. “Yeah, sure you can.”

“Sammy’s cool with it,” Ross retorts. “Only you with the fuckin’ issues, man.”

“Sam can do what he wants,” Dean says, he blinks, takes a long drag, “he’s a big boy.”

Ross sniggers at that, “Yeah, not like I ain’t noticed.”

Dean resists the temptation to roll his eyes, instead looking out across the lot, to the row of rooms opposite, the faded gilded numbers on red painted doors.

Ross elbows him, “Hey, you and me – we’re cool, right? You ain’t pissed about me and Sam?”

His eyes are wide, little boy innocent face, but Dean knows his littlest brother too fucking well to fall for that, Ross isn’t sorry, not for whatever he and Sam have been doing together. Does Ross really want Sam? Or is just some sort of elaborate scheme to piss Dean off? And if it is, why the fuck hasn’t Sam realized it, and if he has – why doesn’t he seem to give a shit? Jesus, that’s way too many fucking questions for this time in the morning.

“Why would I be pissed about that?” he asks evenly.

Ross shrugs, “Dunno, man. Just thought you might be.”

“You mean you hoped I would be?” Dean retorts.

“Whatever.” Ross smirks, completely not denying it.

“I told you, kiddo, you and Sam, you do what you want. I just – man, I can’t do that shit no more. You and me, I just.” He breaks off, flicks the butt to the ground, watches it sizzle pathetically on the damp concrete. “I told you that,” he adds forcefully.

“So what was last night?” demands Ross. “I was there too.”

Dean swallows, shakes his head, doesn’t look up. “Fuck, man, I don’t know. That was for Sam.”

“Right, yeah. Whatever,” Ross scoffs.

They don’t say anything for a moment, Dean sighs, raises his head, makes a move to go back into the room, wake Sam. Ross’s hand darts out, grabs onto his sleeve, pulls him around. Dean jerks his head up, sees his brother’s face: shit-eating grin completely fallen away to expose big-eyed, little-boy sincerity, genuine this time. Ross gazes at him, eyes raking over his face as if he’s trying to see something there, read something there. He raises his free hand, touches Dean’s eyebrow with his fingertips, places his palm on Dean’s cheek, turns his face so they’re completely nose to nose, nowhere to look but into each other’s eyes.

“Dean, I mean it; I can be good, go along with whatever you want. And me and Sam – we can be good too, we can be good together, you just – the two of you - you can’t cut me out completely. You can’t do that. I’m your brother; I ain’t got no one else ‘cause Dad is – he’s -”

His stomach knots up, guts churning at the barely hidden desperation in Ross’s tone. He raises his own hand, places it over Ross’s, his brain providing a quick flash memory to last night, Ross’s fingers entwined with Sam’s working up and down his shaft, Ross sucking his own fingers, coating them with saliva, using the slick to work over the head of Dean’s cock while Sam’s big fingers played with his balls. The two of them servicing, doing things – to him. _Let us take care of you…_ Sam’s voice, so soft and persuasive, matching pairs of big dark eyes and slanted evil grins. Jesus.

He swallows, pushes back the images, concentrates on this: here and now, he and Ross. He doesn’t need to say anything, just fists his fingers in his little brother’s shirt, pulls him in hard, arms wrapping around him as they have done so many times before.

“Hey, listen to me: you’re my brother, you’re always gonna be my brother, I’m always gonna be there for you, you dumb idiot. That ain’t never gonna change.”

Ross nods, jerks his head back, makes to pull himself away.

“No,” Dean insists, tightening his hold, “listen, 'cause I don’t think you’re gettin’ this, Littlest Bro. This sex shit – me sayin’ no to that – to me and you like that – it don’t matter. Not to what we are. 'Cause you’re my brother, you and Sammy, it’s us against the world, kiddo, ain’t that what Dad’s always sayin’. And you gotta quit worrying about Dad too, ‘cause he’ll be okay. We’ll find him again and shit will be good, like it used to be.”

He loosens his hold on Ross, letting the kid slip away from him, hair even more tousled after its encounter with Dean’s shirt. Dean eyes him warily, but Ross is hiding his face again, fumbling for another cigarette, eyes focused on the other side of the parking lot, the couple leaving room 12.

“You hungry?” he asks.

Ross gives a sort of shrug, doesn’t look up. “Guess.”

“Good. Well I’m gonna take a walk down this fine main street, see if there’s any diners doin’ breakfast. You get inside and tell Sam to pick up his shit.”

Ross nods, fingers clutched around his cigarette, eyes still not meeting Dean’s.

“Good boy, see you in five.”

 

 

****************************

 

 

It just figures that the cute art chick goes for Sam. Just ‘cause he can shoot the shit about some freaking creepy-ass painting and Grand Wood and providences and whatever the fuck they were talking about, shit makes fuck all sense to him. Though, she seems way interested in Sam which… come on, can’t she, like, see the gay for herself? Can’t she see the way he’s so not really into any of the conversation starters she tries with him? Can’t she see that he’s looking over her fucking shoulder at Dean stuffing his mouth with mini quiches the entire time they’re having their lame conversation?

Whatever. He gives her a long look as the stuffy dude throws them out, she’s still staring after Sam, though, but she catches his eye and blushes slightly, totally caught out. It’s pretty cute but also way annoying, ‘cause why Sam? He’s equally, if not more, hot than Sam, just ‘cause he ain’t got this fancy-ass education and pansy-ass art knowledge.

“How about asking Sarah about the painting?” Dean suggests after Sam bangs on some more about the freaking provenances and the painting’s history and cursed objects and other things that Ross has just, like, kinda tuned out.

Sam looks confused for a moment, closing the lid of his laptop and frowning at Dean who’s also totally not researching the case at all but lying on the bed reading an ancient copy of _Hot Rod_.

“Who?” asks Sam.

Jesus, this is so freaking typical. It was always like this: the cute, classy, smart chicks always used to go for Sam, like that preacher’s daughter back in Iowa, and Lucy, the chick who he lost his virginity to way back when, and countless other girls at loads of other schools. It’s gotta be the height, the freakishly tall thing, ‘cause there ain’t no freaking way Sam’s hotter than him or Dean in looks, and okay, so maybe Dean’s pick-up lines are kinda sleazy and those smart and classy chicks are not the sort to be caught with a line like that, and Sam’s got that whole college boy working for him, but still…

“Duh, Sarah,” he interrupts, “you know, the totally smokin’ chick at the art thing, the one you were banging on about Grand Wood –“

“Grant Wood,” Sam corrects.

“Whatever. Anyway, _her_. It’s, like, her gallery, she must have access to the freakin’ providences.”

“Provenances.”

Ross rolls his eyes and exchanges a look with Dean who’s looking amused by the whole exchange, eyes flickering over Sam’s frowning face in an affectionate sort of way.

“You think I should call her up, ask her about them?” says Sam, tapping his fingers distractedly against the lid of his laptop.

“Yeah, take her out to dinner somewhere nice,” Dean says with a shrug.

“Why would I wanna do that? I can just ask her.”

Sam looks genuinely confused, and will someone buy the dude a fucking clue already? They may look alike, but sometimes he seriously believes he and Sam are from a different planet.

“Duh, maybe 'cause she was, like, majorly into you,” he says. “And she’d be more likely to dish the dirt if you, like, butter her up, and flirt and shit, and then maybe fuck her in the back of the Impala. That’s what I’d do, dude.”

Dean laughs out loud but Sam’s frowning even harder, looking insulted at the idea that shock, horror, some poor deluded chick thinks he’s hot and that… _oh my God_ , they might use that to their advantage in cracking this case. Perhaps all those years of fucking around with Dean have actually brain-damaged the two of them in some way, because sometimes he really wonders about Dean too.

“C’mon, man, I was joking. S’not like you have to, like, actually _sleep_ with her if you’re too chicken,” he tells him.

Dean snorts and slides off the bed, crossing the freak-ass disco motel room to grab his cigarettes off the table, slapping Sam’s ass on the way over.

“Sam, seriously dude, she was way into you. It’s all for the good of the case, man, the good of humanity, if it makes you feel better,” Dean tells him.

Ross laughs and watches Sam pull a face at Dean’s retreating back.

“Don’t worry, Sammy, me and Dean’ll protect you from the evil girl parts.”

“Fuck off,” Sam says distractedly.

Ross sniggers again and goes out after Dean; he needs to bum a cigarette.

 

 

In the end, Sam agrees to go out with the art chick, with Sarah. She makes reservations at some classy restaurant place which means that they have to use their suits again, and Sam bitches royally as he attempts to iron his one dress shirt with the motel’s lethally hot iron.

“I can’t believe you’re pimpin’ me out like this,” he whines.

Dean looks up from where he’s making notes in Dad’s journal at the kitchenette table. “Dude, we’re not pimpin’ you out.”

“Hell, I’ll do it,” Ross offers.

Because yeah, he’d do it. He totally doesn’t mind being pimped out, he’s quite happy to take one for the team that way, and that chick was cute. Way hotter than the last girl he slept with - a barely legal truck stop waitress in Missoula - and that was freaking ages ago, because since then, hell, for so freaking long it feels like now, it’s just been the three of them, though, he’s not even sure if they have that anymore, not after Dean totally kicking him to the curb, and he just –

Man, he just, like, wants some time away from it all, some time to be normal and regular and not have to think about Dean and Sam and DeanandSam and Dad and everything else that’s beating around his brain and making him fucking stir crazy. So, yeah, the prospect of going out to some fancy-ass restaurant with some smoking hot chick and eating nice shit and flirting and maybe getting laid epically at the end of it all… God, he _wants_ that, like, really fucking wants it.

Anyway, back in the here and now, Sam’s stopped sulking and is looking at him hopefully. He looks kinda comical, standing there, steaming iron in hand, dressed in just his boxers, socks and an undershirt, his hair just starting to dry, ends curling up around his ears just like it used to do when he was a kid and they’d just gotten out of the bath, huddled up in their towels in front of the TV, and Ross feels a flash of warmth… _affection…?_ in his belly as he watches him, ‘cause Jesus, his brother’s such a dork, and so freaking transparent. He’s probably thinking how if Ross goes out with Sarah, he can stay behind and bang Dean up against that glitzy disco-queen mirror, ‘cause he totally knows that Sammy’s a kinky fucker like that.

“Really?” asks Sam.

“Ah, man, c’mon,” interrupts Dean. “Sam – she wanted to go out with you. You can’t stand the poor girl up now. S’fuckin’ bad manners.”

“I’m not talking about standing her up, Dean,” Sam says, “I’m talking about me – I dunno – gettin’ sick or something and Ross going instead. That way he can pump her for the intel –“

“S’not all I’ll be fuckin’ pumpin’ her for,” Ross interjects.

Sam rolls his eyes at him. “Dude, not helping.” Ross shrugs and smirks, but Sam just frowns more deeply and turns back to Dean, immediately dropping the frown for that dumb, wide-eyed, earnest face of his that Ross always knew was totally fake but never failed to work on Dean anyway. “C’mon, Dean. This is good for everyone, she’ll easily be able to tell that I’m not really into her, that I’m just putting it on, girls aren’t stupid, man.”

“Yeah, Deano, let me work some of the patented Winchester charm on her!” Ross adds with a leer.

Dean makes a sort of scoffing sound then sighs manfully, “Jesus, alright, whatever, do what you want.”

 

 

 

When he gets to the restaurant he starts to have second thoughts because fuck, this place is fancy, like posh restaurant from a TV series fancy. He hesitates and the snooty waiter (of course he’s snooty) looks him up and down and asks for ID, which… so fucking embarrassing. Still, it’s not like he can cause a scene here, and as he shows the guy one of the fakes, he thinks about how he could totally, like, take him apart if he wanted to, nail him to the floor with a left hook, prick wouldn’t even see it coming.

He leads Ross over to the table where the chick – Sarah, he needs to remember that - is waiting for him. She looks surprised to see him, and kinda disappointed which is… shit, it’s disappointing. He can’t believe he’s second best to Sam, though, fuck, when has he not been second best to Sam?

“You’re not Sam,” she says, “I, um, it was Sam I was speaking to on the phone, right? The one I made the date with?”

“Yes, you were. And yes, you’re right, I’m not Sam. I’m Ross. We did meet. In the, uh, the art place, before your dad had us kicked out.”

She looks slightly amused, an ironic kinda smile edging at the corners of her mouth. “Yes, of course, I remember. Sorry about that.” Her smile gets wider, more genuine, and he smiles back at her – one of his biggest, most charming smiles.

“Uh, well, thing is, Sam, he got sick, uh, both him and Dean got sick. Like, literally sick, puking up and a fever. We think it was some bad shrimp. They ate it, I didn’t.”

“Oh, okaaay,” she says slowly, eyebrows going up in a puzzled sort of way which is pretty cute. “That’s too bad. Sorry to hear it.”

“Yeah, shit luck for them, especially for Sammy, he was really looking forward to going out with you,” he says, using his most sincere voice. “But, not for me. 'Cause I get to take his place, have dinner with you.” He aims for a lower-wattage smile this time, slightly less charm, less Dean and more Sammy, the whole aw-shucks, I’m just a good handsome boy smile that Sam can fucking live off. She looks at him for a moment as if she’s considering it, then she shrugs, waves a hand at the place setting opposite her.

“Okay, I suppose, seeing as you’re here. Take a seat. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

He sits down, feeling his suit pull uncomfortably around his shoulders as he squirms in the seriously straight-backed chair. “Oh come on, I find that hard to believe that, cute girl like you.”

She rolls her eyes, gives him a self-deprecating smile. “Yes, well, believe it. My alternative is a night in with a TV movie and microwave pizza.”

“Yeah and my alternative is going back to a motel room and listening to my brothers throw up all night.”

If of course you replace throw up with fuck around.

She seems to relent at that and laughs. “Well, then, let’s order.”

An hour later, and he’s actually really enjoying himself. She’s cute, fucking hot actually, great shoulders, man, great _tits_ , and shit, he’s missed tits. All his fantasies recently have been about hard muscled bodies and fucking penises for fuck’s sake – which is all kinds of wrong – getting hard over what are obviously a good pair of tits under that classy black dress of hers feels like coming home to see Dad lying on the couch after he’s been away for weeks on a hunt.

She’s great company, seems really into him, and sure the wine’s helping, they’re already on their second bottle, and it’s going down pretty fucking nicely thank you, and there she was suggesting they’d get beer at first because she thought he’d be scared by the wine list. What the fuck’s there to be scared of, you just look at the prices and point, fucking easy shit.

He’s telling her a story, this one’s true, about that one time in ninth grade he and Sam were expelled for fighting, not each other, but some older senior kids who’d had it in for him from the beginning, fucking cornered him after school one day, four on one, cowardly assholes, luckily for him, Sam had gotten out of his geek club early and arrived just in time to even the odds. The four assholes had been no match for both him and Sam together, and they’d beaten them to the ground in the end, sent one of the bitches to fucking hospital, ruined his football career for the rest of the year. Unfortunately, the administration hadn’t been happy about that and they’d both been royally expelled and Dean had been seriously pissed.

She laughs, says, “My first boyfriend back in high school played football. He was an asshole.”

“They’re always assholes,” Ross says.

She quirks her lip, helps herself to another healthy glug of wine.

“So, uh, how come you ain’t been out on a date for so long?” he asks after a couple of minutes silence.

She sighs and sets down her glass, raises her fingers to her collarbone, an unconscious sort of gesture, as if she’s thinking something over. “My mom died recently, well, uh, I guess not recently, a couple of years ago, just after I left college. Since then…” she trails off, shrugs awkwardly, “I guess I’ve kinda turned into a hermit.”

“Well that’s a damn shame,” he says forcefully, “’cause if you don’t mind me sayin’, you’re a seriously hot piece of ass. Way too hot to be a freakin’ hermit.”

“Wow, I don’t think anyone’s ever said anything like that to me before.” Her voice gets sarcastic, eyebrows all hiked up in a way that reminds him of Sam.

“Well you never met anyone like me before,” he answers matter-of-factly, this time trying for his disarming grin. It obviously works because she rolls her eyes and quirks her lips in a way that means she’s trying to hold back a laugh, a real smile.

“So it seems,” she says.

There’s another moment of silence when the waiter, not the snooty one but another one, comes by to refill their glasses again, and Ross leans back in his seat, lets the guy lean over, it’s kinda awesome being waited on like these, though he can imagine it getting old fast.

She catches his eye and smiles awkwardly. He clears his throat, says abruptly, “My mom’s dead, too.” He doesn’t know why he’s said it, one of the first rules Dad drummed into them was not to divulge any personal information, and if you have to, then keep it vague, shit that can’t be checked. “It happened years ago, like, I was five or six, I’m not sure, and I don’t really remember her, but, yeah. I, uh, I get it, you know. It sucks.”

“Yeah,” she says quietly, “yeah, it does.”

They go silent again and the waiter comes by, clears their main courses, leaves the dessert menu, Sarah picks it up, starts to skim it distractedly.

“So, you’re all brothers, all three of you?” she asks, placing the menu back on the table and reaching for her wine glass again.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, feeling on edge for the first time, he doesn’t want to talk about Dean and Sam, doesn’t want to think about the two of them 'cause he knows if he does, he’s gonna start thinking about what they’re probably up to right now, and he wants to get away from all that shit, wants to forget about it for one goddamn night.

She nods thoughtfully. “And you’re the youngest?”

“Yeah.”

“So did you go to college too? Like Sam?”

“Who me?” he lets out a sudden laugh, “Yeah, right.”

She looks surprised, and shit, yeah, they’re supposed to be antique dealers, old family firm, etc… Fuck, chances are, in the real world, he would have a college degree, fancy-ass learning and all that jazz. God, sometimes he sucks at this undercover shit.

“Uh, it was, the job – family business and all that, Dad thought I could, like, learn on the job. Anyway, Sam’s enough college boy for all of us. He went to Stanford.”

“Really?” Her eyebrows go up, but this time it’s ‘cause she’s impressed. “That’s a great school.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “So _he_ says. Man, I don’t know from shit.”

She laughs out loud at that, leaning back in her chair and giving him this sort of appraising look that’s pretty fucking unnerving, kind of reminds him of the looks Bobby used to give them after they’d skipped curfew, but it’s also a billion fucking miles away from Bobby’s old looks, 'cause it’s like she’s mentally undressing him, checking out the size of his package through his tight dress pants, and Bobby most definitely never did that, seriously, the thought is really fucking gross.

He licks his lips, watches her eyes run over his face, down his body, feeling weirdly self-conscious. This is a new thing for him, he’s always sure of himself, particularly with chicks, he knows he’s a hot piece of ass, he normally fucking loves it when they check him out like this, 'cause they _always_ like what they see, course they fucking do.

It’s gotta be all this crap that’s been going on with Dean and Sam, Dean the other night telling him no, fucking rejecting him. He doesn’t get rejected often, not used to it, and, whatever, he’s not going there right now, not gonna think about Dean and Sammy, let that shit ruin this evening.

The dessert comes, she ordered it, said it would be awesome, and it looks it. Sorbet or something, totally new to him, but it’s really fucking good, refreshing, sweet, tangy, and man, it’s so good to eat real, proper food for once.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?” she asks, spoon poised half way to her mouth.

He hesitates, his immediate reaction to the question is to lie, course it fucking is, but he’s already told the truth tonight, mentioned his own mom and he never talks about that, not even to Dean, especially not to Dean.

He opens his mouth, says in a rush, “I’m twenty one.”

She gives an embarrassed sort of twitch of a laugh and shakes her head. “God, I thought so. I’m older than you.”

“Not by much!”

“I’m twenty four, nearly twenty five,” she says with a confiding look. “An older woman.”

He grins, licking his lips in a way that he _knows_ is one of his most seductive moves. “Then it’s fucking lucky I really like older women.”

 

 

He offers to drop her home and she agrees, directs him to her house. All the lights are off and she tells him that her father’s out, is always out. It’s kinda awkward for a moment, then she leans over, puts one hand on his face, turning him so their eyes meet.

“You wanna make out?” she asks with a quirk of a smile. “Before I have to go back in?”

And, man, fuck, yeah, course he fucking does.

It turns into something more than making out pretty fucking quickly. He can feel her hands all over him, tugging at his jacket, pushing it over his shoulders, fingers clenching into the thick muscle of his arms as she groans into his mouth. Fuck, she wants him bad.

“God, Ross, this car is _hot_ ,” she gasps between kisses, and he kinda likes her all the more for that, can practically hear Dean’s purr of approval.

He grabs her head with both hands, fists his fingers into her long hair, and _fuck_ , gets hit with a sense memory of Sam – fisting his fingers in Sam’s stupid brown hair, both of them making out, too rough, biting each other’s lips, more like fighting than kissing, Dean’s voice in his ear…

He pushes the thought away with a shudder and pushes his tongue into her mouth. She whimpers and sucks on it, pulling him in closer with her hand wrapped around his dumb, cheap tie. Her nails dig into him, leaving marks, and man, he should’ve known… chicks like this – classy, arty chicks – they’re always the kinky ones, the ones who want to just fucking go for it.

He pulls away and pants for breath, her eyes wide, lipstick and eyeliner smudged, sheen of sweat on her upper lip, face like a chick in a freaking R’n’B video.

“You, uh, you wanna –“ he murmurs. “In the backseat?”

She hesitates for a second, biting her already bitten lips, then nods, expression completely certain. “Yeah, okay.”

He grins, huge and genuine, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she clarifies with a smile. “But, uh, hope you got protection ‘cause I’m pretty sure the condom in my purse has expired.”

He laughs shakily and drags one hand down her silky black dress, cups her ass. “Oh yeah, I’m always prepared.”

 

 

When he gets back, he doesn’t know who looks the most well-fucked: himself with the evidence of the awesome sex he just had all over his chest and back in the shape of Sarah’s kick-ass manicure or Dean and Sam who are both lying naked on top of one of the beds, sweaty and gross, smelling of jizz and sharing a tub of Häagen Dazs.

“Fuck, you two are so freakin’ gay.”

“Fuck you,” retorts Dean, helping himself to an enormous spoonful of ice cream. “For that, I’m not letting you share.”

“Don’t wanna. I had sorbet for dessert. It was awesome.”

“Sorbet? And you say _we’re_ gay? Jesus, dude.”

Ross pulls a face at him and throws the comforter from his own bed at the two of them. “Fuck’s sake, cover your naked asses up, wouldya? S’fucking off-putting!”

“Seem to remember you weren’t complaining about our naked asses the other night,” comments Sam.

He ignores him, feeling his stomach muscles clench up. “Yeah, whatever,” he mutters.

Dean gives him an unimpressed, _yeah, right_ look, eyebrows raised all obnoxious big brother style, while Sam asks: “Did you get the provenances?”

“Huh?”

“Ah, man, Ross. The freakin’ provenances,” Dean says, “you know, what you were supposed to ask her about. The reason you went on the fuckin’ date.”

He shrugs, suddenly remembering, but they got forgotten somewhere, probably between orgasms, his head between Sarah’s thighs and his cock inside her. How was he supposed to remember the case after that?

“Don’t shit it, I’ll get ‘em tomorrow,” he says finally.

Dean lets out a long, pissed breath, shaking his head, and Sam gives this scornful sorta snort, like either of them can judge him, it’s, like, pretty goddamn obvious exactly what they’ve been doing all night, and it totally ain’t working on this fucking case. He ignores them, tugs off his jacket and heads for the bedroom.

“Don’t bother hiding, Littlest Bro – I can see the hickeys!” Dean calls after him.

Ross looks in the mirror, fuck him, Dean’s right, there are hickeys all over his neck. He prods one and grins at his reflection. Awesome. He sees Dean approach in the mirror, leaning his (still naked ass) up against the doorframe and staring at him with a strange look on his face.

“I see you got some then,” he says.

“Damn straight.”

“That’s my boy.” He comes forward until he’s standing real close by Ross’s shoulder. “Was she good?”

Ross hesitates, feeling his stomach flip over. Fuck, Dean’s close, so close that he can smell him, that sweaty sex smell that’s a mixture of Dean and Sam and every fucked up thing they’ve been doing all night. Dean was always interested in his sex life, they’d trade stories, Dean banging on about this chick, that dude he’d hooked up with the previous night, leering and gesturing and pulling faces that would have Ross rolling his eyes and begging him to shut the fuck up. Dean would just laugh and ask him about his own conquests. He never felt embarrassed trading these stories with Dean, it was just the way they were. They lived far too close together, too much in each other’s goddamn faces all the time for any of this shit to keep private, and Dean always seemed to enjoy hearing about his hook-ups as much as he did enjoy telling his own… which is pretty fucked-up when he thinks about it now.

“Yeah,” he nods awkwardly. “It was great.”

“Just great?” Dean asks, eyebrows going up as he slides closer. He stares at the patch of skin revealed through Ross’s open collar, and leans in, putting one finger up against one of the hickeys, pressing it into Ross’s skin. It’s like everything’s stopped for a moment, and he remembers doing the same thing to Dean the first time he realized he wanted him: pressing him up against the stall of a men’s bathroom and pressing at the marks Sam had left on Dean’s throat, wanting to get rid of them, erase them from his brother’s body.

He feels a lurch of nausea in his stomach, like he’s going to throw up, that gross acid-biley taste at the back of his throat. He stares at Dean’s fingers, so close that they’re fuzzy and distorted in his vision. He can see the mark out of the corner of his eye, red and purple and… embarrassing, shameful, the mark of a slut, of a stupid teenager who lets someone mark them up. The first time Dean came home with some slut’s marks on his neck Dad laughed at him, and told him he was a dumb horny kid for letting some girl mark him like that, Dean blushed and Ross felt pleased.

He feels embarrassed now, remembering the contempt in Dad’s voice. In the car, he felt Sarah’s mouth on him, her lips and teeth, and he didn’t tell her to stop like he usually did to girls. He let her do it 'cause… he’s not fucking sure why he did. Perhaps this was what he was secretly wanting the whole time – to get exactly this reaction from Dean - this weird creepy-strange look on his brother’s face obviously trying to hold something back as he stares at Ross in the mirror.

There’s a long moment of silence, then he hears Sam call out from the other room, “What you guys doing?”

Dean pulls his hand back fast, like he’s been burned, like Ross is something forbidden, something he shouldn’t be touching.

“Just s’long as you didn’t get jizz on my upholstery, bitch,” he says, turning on that obnoxious big brother voice again, but it sounds fake this time, like Dean’s uncomfortable saying it.

He doesn’t get the chance to respond because Dean’s already stalking back to the bedroom, back to Sam.

He tries not to look at himself again as he gets undressed to shower.

 

[Next chapter](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/24975.html#cutid1)


	15. Chapter 15

Sarah comes round in the morning. She’s got the provenances, which was of course the entire reason Sam, and then Ross, was supposed to go out with her in the first place. Of course they, like, totally forgot about that shit in the end, what with being so busy getting busy in the back of the freaking Impala, heh, heh… Hell, whatever, a guy can’t be expected to remember shit like freaking providences or whatever the fuck they’re called when he’s just been laid epically and awesomely by a hot chick.

Ross is feeling groggy and not really with it when he wakes up to someone knocking on their motel room door. Dean and Sam are still out of it, curled up on the other bed, sprawling all over each other as fucking usual, and breathing really loudly and heavily in a way that’s totally not attractive, like, at all.

He staggers out of bed and answers the door in his t-shirt and boxers, hair mussed up, yawning so widely he looks like an actor pretending to play a sleepy person.

“Oh, hi!” she says. “Sorry, did I wake you up?”

She looks sort of embarrassed and shy for a second, which is kinda cute, especially when he can remember exactly how _not_ shy she was last night. He blinks, getting hit with a super-graphic sex flashback of her long, tanned legs wrapped around his waist, his hands cupping her gloriously rounded ass cheeks as he thrust into her, he blinks again, grins goofily back at her, and like a fucking moron, takes a step back to let her walk on in.

He shuts the door behind her, and that’s when he realizes the he’s made a huge fucking mistake, ‘cause she’s staring at the other bed… the other bed containing Dean and Sam… naked, very naked, sheets down to their waists, covering their crotches (thank God), but with Sam’s arm hooked around Dean’s chest, face buried in Dean’s neck, like they’re actually fucking spooning. She stares at them, then slowly raises her eyes to him, looking a mixture of bewildered and suspicious.

“Um, your _brothers_?”

Fuck. Shit, and fuck again. Goddamn it! ‘Cause, yes, Sarah, they _are_ my brothers, and yes, this is exactly what it looks like, except what normal _sane_ person is gonna want to hear that they’ve just stumbled into the Winchester family’s incestuous freak-show of a life?

He grits his teeth and shrugs in a helpless, and what he hopes is a sympathetic way, “Uh, yeah.” She doesn’t look impressed, narrowing her eyes on him. “Look, we don’t. Uh, what I, like, mean is that Sam’s my brother, that much is true.” ‘Cause yeah, the resemblance is way too fucking noticeable for him to deny that one. “But Dean, he’s, like, Sam’s boyfriend, not our brother.”

“So I see.”

“Yeah. We, uh, we just pretend he’s our brother, because people can be difficult, like, homophobic, you know? It’s caused problems in the past, people makin’ trouble.”

She looks confused, raising her eyebrows like she’s totally not buying it. “In the antiquing world? I find that hard to believe.”

He chuckles weakly. Shit. Fucking antiquers. “Yeah, right, right. Look, don’t ask me. It’s their issue. They’ve, uh, they’ve had problems in the past. Dean – he was beaten up real bad once, real fuckin’ hate crime thing.”

Her expression turns sympathetic at that and she shakes her head, fuck, maybe he should’ve led with that. She’s a chick, liberal arts background, course she’s gonna be all about the gay rights free speech bullshit.

“Ross? _What the fuck_?”

Dean’s voice startles him out of an upcoming rant against homophobia and narrow-minded jerks who don’t know what real love is and are probably overcompensating anyway, and he twists around to see Dean sitting up in bed, glaring open-mouthed at the two of them.

“You’re awake,” he stammers.

“Yes, that’s right,” Dean duhs, staring at the both of them, looking royally pissed, but he manages a sort of grimace/smile thing when he turns his eyes on Sarah. “Nice to see you again, Sarah.”

“You too,” she says with a smirk. “So much of you.”

Dean blushes which is pretty freaking hilarious, and he pulls the sheet up over his chest, like, trying to be modest – which… way too late for that, Deano.

“I, like, had to tell her, dude. You know, the truth?” he says. Dean’s eyes widen, and he looks completely fucking terrified for a moment, as if Ross would’ve really told Sarah that his two brothers were banging each other. He’s kinda tempted to not enlighten Dean, let him suffer for a while longer, but Dean would seriously kill him and the terrified constipated face Dean’s wearing is not really worth the hours of brooding silent treatment his big brother will most definitely dish out if he teases him for any longer.

“You know,” he continues breezily, “‘bout you and Sam bein’ boyfriends, and not brothers.”

Dean actually freaking exhales in relief and stammers: “Uh, yeah, course, yeah, that.”

“So, does this mean that neither of you were really sick last night?” Sarah asks after a moment.

“No, yeah, we were, God, miles of vomit, those fucking oysters, man,” babbles Dean.

“I thought it was shrimp?”

“Shrimp, yeah, yeah. Did I say oysters? I totally meant shrimp.”

Ross stifles down the urge to laugh out loud. He’s always known that Dean sucks at lying, but this… man… they should tape it and watch it over and over and use it in classes on how _not_ to lie convincingly. Dean’s stupid babbling is meanwhile waking up Sam, and Sam does a hilarious double take when he sees Sarah in the room, sinking down into the mattress and pulling away from Dean as far as the stupid queen bed will let him, his face going this crazy beet red color.

“Hey, Sam,” Sarah says brightly, “feeling better?”

Sam blinks at her and goes even redder, if that’s possible.

Ross kinda loves her for that.

 

 

 

“Look, you should’ve just told me Sam was gay,” she says an hour later when they’re safely in a coffee shop a couple of blocks over from the motel. “I can take it. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve liked a guy who didn’t play for my team. Or, he could’ve just said no to my invitation.”

“He gets embarrassed about it,” Ross says. “Which, you know, considering how many fuckin’ years he and Dean have been doin’ the nasty, makes, like, zero sense. But Sam’s kinda weird like that,” he breaks off at her curious look and shrugs, quickly back-tracking, “you know, he’s, like, he can be funny sometimes, ‘bout bein’ totally gay. Like he’s ashamed. Makes no fuckin’ sense to me, but that’s his problem, not yours.”

“Right,” she says, sounding unconvinced. He watches her take a few mouthfuls of coffee, sipping it thoughtfully. She’d ordered it black and strong, like his own, seriously, she’s like the perfect woman. “So, how many years have they been together?”

“Uh, six, maybe seven.”

“Wow. That’s um, that’s intense.” She looks impressed. “They must’ve gotten started pretty young.”

“Yeah, you could say.”

Fuck, she doesn’t know the half of it.

“So how did they meet?”

Oh for fuck’s sake, is he going to spend the entire conversation talking about Sam and Dean and their big gay love? Normally, he loves spinning stories like this, and normally, he has no fucking trouble at all telling lies, fact is, he enjoys making up the stories. He and Dean have several good ones they used to use on chicks all the freaking time: movie producers, talent scouts, vineyard owners, frat brothers with enormous trust funds, roadies… one for every possible scenario. But this… this is about his brothers and their fucked up incestuous relationship which he just wants to fucking forget about for one freaking day, instead of spinning it into some sort of epic gay romance.

“Dean, uh, he was, like, a friend of the family. We all grew up together, just kinda happened from there. I don’t really know how, don’t really wanna,” he pulls a face and she grins sympathetically, “anyway. They were, like, together for a coupla years, then Sammy went off to college and Dean, uh, he, like, stayed behind workin’ for my dad, bein’ part of the business. Anyway, he stayed and then Sam dropped outta Stanford and came back, and they pretty much just picked up where they left off.”

“Wow, that’s so cool,” she says, then laughs self-consciously. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve been asking you all these questions about your brother and you probably don’t want to talk about him.” She lowers her eyes and gives him this sort of smirk which for the first time that morning makes his dick start to perk up and take notice, probably remembering the awesome Impala fuck from last night.

“Yeah, I can think of much better things to talk about.”

It’s weird the way he likes her, ‘cause he doesn’t generally like people, as a rule and all that. People piss him off, they’re ignorant and get in the way and when they do know what's out there they fuck it up, like those two ghostbusting wannabes they ran into in West Texas. And when they’re not thinking they can handle shit, they’re dressing up like fucking Goths and summoning freaking spirits, or they’re moving into old-ass houses where entire families were slaughtered fifty fucking years ago which are so fucking obviously haunted, or they’re getting themselves kidnapped, or – and this is one of his favorites – they’re buying super-creepy paintings with a history of blood and murder.

Whatever. Generally, in the gospel according to Ross Winchester, most people suck. Admittedly, there are few exceptions: Dad, of course, some of Dad’s old hunting buddies are okay too, Bobby Singer’s always been pretty cool, (when he’s not pulling shotguns on Dad of course), Dean (when he’s not being dick-whipped by Sam) and on occasion, Sam (when he’s not being dick-whipped by Dean). Now, though… he might have to add Sarah to his list, cause, man, he saw the way she took out that creepy girl spirit with the iron poker! Fucking awesome. Normally, he’s not into the whole chick fighting thing, except for Buffy, and whoa, Faith, but Sarah, she kicked ass almost as good as he did, and hell, she looked damn good doing it.

He kisses her goodnight outside her house after they vanquish the spirit, a long, lingering kiss with plenty of tongue, his hands tangled in her fight-mussed hair.

“You gonna be okay?” he asks.

She nods and places one hand on the back of his head, her fingers curling into his hair as she pulls him back into the kiss. He can feel his shoulder blades tingling as he kisses her back, like someone’s watching. Sure enough, when they pull apart again, he turns around to see Dean and Sam leaning up against the car, parked about ten yards away, watching him with this intense and creepy closeness, Sam smirking, and Dean smoking a cigarette with this totally inscrutable expression.

“We’ve got an audience,” Sarah whispers, her mouth crooking in amusement. “Are they always this fascinated by your love life?”

“Man, you _so_ don’t want to know,” he groans.

She smiles, fingers stroking along the nape of his neck and making him shiver in this delicious sort of way.

“So… are you leaving now, or will you be hanging around a few days?” she asks.

“Depends,” he says with a smirk.

She rolls her eyes and jostles him. “Because if you are hanging around, then I was thinking that we should go out tomorrow night. To celebrate. All four of us. We could double-date. Do you think Sam and Dean would want to do that?”

He knows his mouth is hanging open in shock right now, but seriously… he and Sarah, and Sam and Dean, on a freaking double-date. There’s only one answer here.

He grins widely and says, “Yeah, they’d totally love it.”

 

 

 

“I told you, kiddo, no fuckin’ way.”

“Aw, man, c’mon,” Ross cajoles, but Dean’s not having it, looking up from the computer with a scowl.

“Ross, I said no.”

“Said no to what?”

Sam appears from the bathroom as if he’s entering on a cue, toweling his face dry from where he’s just shaved, specks of foam still clinging to his sideburns and his eyebrows – fuck, his eyebrows? What the fuck was he doing to get the shit up there? Huh.

“Sarah invited us all out tonight, to, like, this bar?” he says, fixing his eyes on Sam and his curiously foamy eyebrows, “‘Cept Deano don’t wanna go.”

“Why not?” Sam turns his attention to Dean. “Sounds like a good plan to me.”

Dean scowls harder, “That’s because he ain’t told you everything. ‘Cause Einstein here told her we were a freakin’ couple, she’s invited us on a double-date. Like her and lover-boy, and me and you – a fuckin’ double-date.”

Sam turns to Ross with a snort, “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. And I totally don’t get what the big fuckin’ deal is here,” says Ross.

Dean gets up with a jerk, slams the lid of the laptop shut, ignoring Sam’s audible wince. “You don’t get what… Okay, let me enlighten you, Littlest Bro! One: Sam and me – we ain’t a couple, we’re brothers. Two: I don’t date. Ever. Three…” he breaks off with a shrug, “I don’t have a three just now, but the first two are extremely fuckin’ valid!”

“One: you and Sam are a fuckin’ couple,” Ross retorts, “you’re, like, always fuckin’ all over each other, you’re practically fuckin’ exclusive, and you are both _way_ more than brothers, so – whatever _you_ want to call it, Dean, you’re just foolin’ yourself, ‘cause you’re a goddamn couple! And two: get over your goddamn self!” He breaks off, catches his breath, darting his eyes towards Sam who’s watching the entire proceedings with this amused little smile playing at the edge of his mouth: “Right, Sammy? You agree with me, right?”

Sam shrugs coolly, “Yeah. Sorry, Dean, but I’m with Ross on this one.”

Dean opens his mouth to retort again, but Sam sticks out his arm to shut him up, adding quickly: “And we’re going out tonight. We are doin’ this. And you’re gonna behave and pretend to be my boyfriend for one freakin’ night. Cause if you don’t…” he breaks off and smirks, “You ain’t gettin’ any for at least a week. Possibly more.”

“Yeah, right, you’ll never be able to resist me for that long,” scoffs Dean.

“Try me,” Sam says with that steely stubborn glint in his eyes that Ross remembers too fucking well from every single Dad-and-Sam fight over the years. Sam holds Dean’s gaze for a long moment, before Dean makes this choking sound in the back of his throat and looks away, totally beaten. Ross bites back the urge to crow out loud, instead settling for exchanging a triumphant look with Sam.

“I think I preferred it when you hated each other’s guts,” grumbles Dean.

“We never hated each other’s guts,” Sam counters with a frown, and Ross is surprised to find that he agrees. Sure, he and Sam used to fight and he resented Sam - for his relationship with Dean, for, God, for being there first - but he can’t ever remember hating him, like, serious hatred. It was never like that between them. Hell, he can even remember times when they genuinely enjoyed each other's company, away from Dean and Dad and their usual petty arguments. Sam was… _is_ his brother, he’s one of them, a Winchester, and there’s only four of them in the entire freaking world, he's not gonna waste time hating him.

“Whatever,” Dean grunts, “still can’t fuckin’ believe you agreed to this shit.”

“Get over it,” Sam answers cheerfully.

 

 

The place Sarah takes them is nothing like he was expecting. He was expecting somewhere fancy like the restaurant they’d had dinner in a few nights ago, and Dean bitched in anticipation of that, whining about having to wear a suit like the massive drama queen he is, despite Ross having already told him that Sarah said the dress-code’s normal bar shit, and that he most definitely _didn’t_ have to wear a suit.

She gives him a ride in her car, which is kinda a relief, way better than sharing the Impala with Sam and Dean. Seriously, when Dean gets like this, Ross is more than happy to let Sam deal with him, after all, Sam still gets the benefit of Dean’s good moods, like the blow-jobs and the hand-jobs and the making-out and the fucking… everything that Dean suddenly decided to take away from him, not that he ever got the ass-fucking, no way is he letting either of his brothers stick anything up his ass, he’s no one’s fucking prag.

Whatever, right now, with Sarah driving him someplace and the thought that he’s probably, definitely gonna get lucky tonight, he doesn’t give a shit about Sam and Dean, they can play at being pretend boyfriends all night, he doesn’t care.

She pulls up outside the place and he has to give her credit for picking somewhere all three of them, Dean in particular, are going to feel at home. There’s music blasting through the door as people go in and out, and when they go inside, he’s surprised again to see that there’s a stage set up for karaoke with someone murdering Cher already up there (not that it takes much to murder Cher, fact is, someone should’ve done that years ago).

“Man, Dean is gonna love this,” he tells her as he follows her to an empty booth. “I didn’t realize you guys still had karaoke in upstate New York.”

“Hey, we can party like the rest of the country!” she says with a smile.

He watches the door and sees Sam and Dean enter, shoulders brushing, Sam’s hand resting on Dean’s arm in this proprietary way that makes something shift and tense up inside him, like he can’t help it. He stands up and raises his arm, waving them over, Dean’s watching the stage, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face, and Sam has to practically drag him away from it.

“I am so gettin’ up there,” Dean declares as he and Sam slide into the booth opposite them. “You reckon they got any Sabbath?”

Sam groans and drops his head in his hands, looking up to catch Sarah’s eye: “Do you realize what you’ve done here?”

“Whatever, bitch, don’t act like you don’t totally love it when I sing for you,” Dean scoffs, elbowing Sam.

Sam rolls his eyes and elbows him back, but he’s grinning and looking at Dean with that completely besotted face, and Dean’s grinning back at him, and it’s like he and Sarah are not even there, and sure, he wanted them to act like they’re boyfriends, but did they have to take it so goddamn literally? Sam shifts closer to Dean, ( _man_ , if they were sitting any closer together they’d be one fucking person), and slides his hand under the table, turning his head so he can whisper something in Dean’s ear. Ross can’t lip read, but he can totally tell what Sam’s saying by the blush that starts at Dean’s neck and the way his mouth is twitching, like, he’s about to burst into a full-on disgusting grin.

Ross turns to catch Sarah’s eye and she raises her eyebrows at him: “Are they always like this?” she murmurs.

“Yup,” he says. “Look, you, uh, wanna drink? I’m gonna go to the bar.”

She nods and asks for a beer and he slides out the booth to head for the bar.

 

 

*****************************

 

Dean decides that Ross’s new little girlfriend can’t be that bad after he pulls the Impala into a rockin’ looking bar that turns out to be even more awesome on the inside than on the outside. There’s decent beer on tap, pool tables with eager-looking marks flocking around them, hot chicks and not a bad selection of hot guys, all of them legal. Not that he’s gonna hit on anyone tonight, not while he and Sam are pretend boyfriends, though, if he’s honest with himself, he probably wouldn’t anyway, Sam’s a jealous bitch at the best of times and Dean’s not about to get on Sam’s bad side, not while his good side includes awesome blowjobs and fantastic sex. There’s also, and this is the cherry on the top of his evening, karaoke with a stage, and okay, so there’s some loser up there at the moment singing fucking Cher for fuck’s sake, but still… awesome.

Sam spots their little brother and his lady-friend while Dean’s busy gaping at the singer and considering going on up there and shouting Christo in the deluded loser’s face because demonic possession is the _only_ excuse for music taste that bad. Sam doesn’t let him, though, just drags him along, the usual Sammy manhandling shit, and pushes him into the booth where Ross and Sarah are sitting, like Dean’s the freaking girl who has to sit on the inside.

He doesn’t open his mouth to complain because Sam’s in a really fucking good mood and he’s not about to ruin that. He’s grinning at everybody in that way that makes Dean unable to stop staring at him, like Sam’s face and Sam’s mouth and those freaking dimples are one of those blue lights in kitchens that toast flies, and Dean’s just the pathetic, doomed fly unable to look away because the light’s just so goddamn pretty. Of course, Sam’s face and Sam’s mouth are just as dangerous as one of those blue lights, and as soon as Ross and Sarah’s attention is engaged elsewhere, he leans in and starts whispering shit in Dean’s ear about what he’s planning on doing to him when they get back to the motel because Littlest Bro for sure won’t be wanting to go back with them straight away.

He sees Ross get up and leave the table from the corner of his eye and so he pulls reluctantly away from Sam, because Dean Winchester knows how to treat a lady, and to carry on trading filthy-nothings with his pretend boyfriend and actual brother is no way to do that. She’s watching the two of them with a smile that’s half amused and half indulgent.

“You don’t need to worry about this place. It’s cool in here,” she tells them.

Huh?

She hesitates for a moment, then continues, “Ross told me that you’ve had problems in the past, with homophobic assholes trying to make trouble. Some people are just ignorant, you know. But this place is cool. Don’t feel like you need to hide here.”

“Oh, right, right,” Dean nods, finally getting it. So Ross has been spinning her some sort of tale about their fight against injustice and homophobia, that’s if you can call punching some prick in the face because he called Sam a fag for groping Dean’s ass in public a fight against injustice and homophobia.

He and Sam attract a lot more attention these days than they ever used to, hell, having Dad around pretty much all the time put the kibosh on PDAs back in the old days, but now, he finds that he doesn’t fucking care. Sure, he’s not really into the public groping so much, but Sammy freaking _loves_ it, and he’s not going to deny Sam just ‘cause a bunch of rednecks can’t deal with a bit of man-love.

“Don’t worry, we aren’t planning on hiding,” Sam says with a sunny smile. He reaches under the table and grabs Dean’s hand, twining their fingers together and pulling it out from under the table, so they’re actually holding hands in plain sight. Sarah’s face falls into this sappy aren’t-they-just-adorable expression and Dean holds back on the urge to barf, feeling Sam tighten his fiendishly long fingers around Dean’s.

Eventually Sam seems to feel like he’s made his point, and lets Dean tug his throbbing hand away, which Dean does, casting his brother a sideways glare, Sam ignoring him and grinning happily like the evil bitch he is.

“So, Sarah,” he says, “tell us about yourself.”

Ross comes back from the bar with a tray full of beers and tequila shots; obviously, Littlest Bro is in the mood for a big night. Well, Dean can handle that. A lot of alcohol will make this whole evening pass a lot more quickly and a lot more easily for him too.

Several beers and shots later, everything seems a lot louder and a lot funnier. He’s half-twisted in his seat watching a guy on stage do a deadly serious but unintentionally hilarious version of _Life On Mars_ , and he’s definitely feeling like he’s in the right sort of mood to get up there right now and show them how it’s done.

He turns around in his seat to declare his intention to the table, and gets sidetracked by the conversation going on around him. Sarah’s rambling on excitedly about some loser, a client of her father’s, who thought his set of dining room chairs were authentic Chippendale, except it turned out that he was totally fucking mistaken or something like that, Dean’s eyes have kinda glazed over by this point, but both Sam and Ross seem riveted. Sam’s interest is not surprising, Sammy’s always had a secret hard-on for that artsy-fartsy shit, but Ross is a different matter… instead of yawning and looking as bored as Dean, Ross’s big brown eyes are latched onto Sarah, lapping up every word falling from her lips and actually looking like he’s really and truly listening to her instead of using it as an excuse to stare at her tits – which is way more usual Ross behavior.

And that… well, that’s concerning.

The thing is, normally, he would totally love this girl, and hey, want to nail her, because, she is really fucking hot, if it wasn’t for the fact that she seems to have done a number on his little brother. He knows he’s overprotective, _insanely overprotective_ according to Sam, when it comes to Ross, but Ross is his responsibility, has always been his responsibility. He’s already fucked things up royally with him and he has no fucking right, after all the shit that’s gone on between them, to ever dictate to him who he can and can’t fuck, but, still… it makes no goddamn difference because Ross is his little brother and therefore it’s up to Dean to look out for him.

Ross may act all tough on the outside, put up this front of not-caring and not-giving-a-shit, but Dean knows better than anyone how completely fake that really is. When Ross was in high school he sometimes used to date girls, but most of the time he wasn’t serious about it, taking his cue from Dean with a love-‘em-and-leave-‘em mentality. Occasionally, he would get serious, develop a full-on crush on some girl, and then… well, it never ended well.

There was that girl he lost his virginity to all those years ago, the quiet, geeky chess club chick who was friendly with Sam, Ross liked her a lot, got really fucking attached to her after the virginity thing, and wanted to properly date her, except she didn’t see things the same way and she kicked his ass to the curb one day after school. To say that Ross didn’t take the rejection well… hell, massive understatement. The poor kid got into a fight the following day during recess and ended up with his stupid ass expelled and the chick’s parents threatening a restraining order. Dad was away at the time, so Dean found himself dealing with all of it: the principal, the angry father, and Ross himself. He was heartbroken in the way only lovesick fourteen year olds who’ve just lost their virginity can be, and Dean can still remember how it felt to hold him in his arms while Ross sobbed his heart out, face buried in Dean’s shirt, skinny ribcage shaking with his sobs, Sam looking on sympathetically.

Ross has never been like Sam, self-contained and resilient and stubborn enough to get through anything. Ross is a bunch of prickly nerve-endings rubbing together, and people like that girl back in high school – like Sarah right this moment – these sweet, serious, older girls are exactly the kind of people that light them up, that get through his thin walls and really get to him, mess him up inside and leave Dean to deal with the fallout. And right now, shit, this is seriously bad timing. The kid’s been acting like a jilted boyfriend ever since Dean told him no, messing around with Sam, trying to make Dean jealous, and giving Dean these big-eyed betrayed looks when he’s not busy tracking his every movement. In some ways, Dean should feel grateful to Sarah, this new infatuation Ross seems to have built up for her a welcome change from the sad emo eyes and bitter retorts, but he’s not grateful, not really. Ross is setting himself up to be hurt again, ‘cause this is only gonna end one way: with the three of them driving away, putting this town and Sarah in the rearview…

She finishes the story to great guffaws of laughter from both Ross and Sam, (obviously Dean’s totally missed something here), and excuses herself from the table to go to the bathroom. Dean watches her weave her way through the crowd, then announces: “Gonna take a leak.”

He’s waiting outside the women’s bathrooms when she comes out.

“Oh, uh, hey, Dean,” she greets him with a distracted smile.

“Hey, Sarah,” he says, his own returning smile everything that is disingenuous. “Just thought you and I should grab a couple of minutes for a little chat.”

“Oh, um, okay,” she says, her smile starting to fade, eyes taking on a wary glint, apparent even through the alcoholic glassiness.

He’s not the kind of guy to not say what he means and he’s feeling a shade more than tipsy right now, and for both those reasons, he just thinks, _fuck it_ , and cuts directly to the chase, to the nub of this entire freaking situation:

“What’re you doin’ with my – with Ross?” he demands, remembering at the last minute that Ross is not supposed to be his little brother tonight, Ross is just the brother of his boyfriend, and isn’t that the freakiest fucking thing about this whole freaky evening?

She blinks, says, “Well, I would’ve thought that was obvious. We’re having a good time right now, and later on, as my father’s out of town, I’d like to take him home with me so we can fuck each other’s brains out.” She pauses, gives him a fake smile, “That’s if it’s all okay with you, Dean.”

He’s actually rendered speechless for a second, before he manages to retort: “Right, right. Well, that sounds peachy, Sarah. Really, it does. But, you see, I kinda look out for the kid, and with his Dad gone right now, it’s up to me to make sure that he’s okay -”

“And you think he’s not okay?” she interrupts.

“Well, I don’t know –“

“What exactly do you think I’m gonna do to him?” she interrupts again. “I’m not a succubus, if that’s what you think.”

“That’s what they always say,” he mutters.

She shakes her head, looking kinda half amused and half frustrated; she takes a step forward and rests one manicured hand on his arm, tilting her head back to look up into his face. “Look, I think it’s cute that you feel you have to look out for Ross, but you’re not his father, Dean, you’re not even his brother, and Ross is a big boy; he can decide things for himself.”

His stomach tightens up at her words: _you’re not even his brother_ , and he suddenly wants to blurt out everything, the whole sordid truth: that screwed-up possessive part of his brain wanting to let her know exactly how insignificant she is in the scheme of things. He _is_ Ross’s brother, hell, he’s way more than that, he’s had Ross’s cock in his mouth just like she has, but he’s also the person who taught the kid how to piss standing up, who’s saved his life more times than he can count, no one else will ever know or love Ross like he does.

He glances over towards the booth where both his brothers are talking, Sam leaning back in his seat, all long sprawled arms and legs, face shining pink with sweat and alcohol, eyes dark and mouth in a lazy half-smile as he watches Ross speak. Ross is leaning forward, talking and gesturing excitedly with his hands, his longer than usual dark hair sticking to the side of his face, just like Sam’s, eyes dazzling and dark in the low bar light. Dean bites back the lump of guilt at the back of this throat, chest tightening as he drags his gaze away.

She’s so wrong, Ross is not old enough or big enough to decide anything right now for himself, not after what he and Sammy and Dad (but mostly him) have put him through these past few months.

But this isn’t the plan; this is pretty much anathema to the plan, the plan to get Ross a decent a life, a decent future. Maybe this girl could be the one to give him that, maybe despite their job and their life and just how incredibly fucked-up things are between the three of them right now, something good could happen here. But then again, maybe he’s not prepared to take that risk, not when it’s Ross.

“Listen, Sarah,” he tries again, “I’m sure you’re a great girl, fact is you do seem like a pretty awesome girl, but Ross is… he’s not in a good place right now. He’s kinda screwed-up and with his Dad being gone –“

“Dean, we’re not looking to get married! We’re just looking for a good time.”

“But that’s it,” he insists, “I think he wants more than that, that he’s getting really fuckin’ attached to you, and I know him, I know that ain’t good, and in our line of businesses, it don’t work.”

Her expression goes thoughtful, considering, “Look, normally I would tell you exactly where you can get off with this protective bullshit, but I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt because you know him a lot better than I do, and I’m in a really good mood right now.” She pauses and sways slightly, and he realizes all of sudden that she’s pretty fucking drunk, her dark eyes with that hazy sheen he’s seen way too many times on chicks’ faces to not recognize and take advantage of.

“I’m gonna level with you, Dean,” she continues, “I like him a lot, he’s nice and he’s sweet and he’s funny, and he’s really damn hot, so if he _does_ decide that maybe this is something more than just a couple of quick fucks then I’m not going to push him away either. Whatever you think.”

She rounds off the sentence with a gummy smile and pulls away from him, weaving back through the crowd and towards their booth. He watches her rejoin Sam and Ross, sliding into the booth beside Ross who's got his arm stretched out along the top of the seat, fingers brushing against her bare shoulder. She turns her head to say something to him, and he can see Ross’s returning smile from here, the flash of white teeth and dimples that make his chest tighten.

He looks away and reaches in his pocket for a cigarette, lighting it up quickly, God, he needs a cigarette.

“Hey.”

A hand lands on his shoulder and he half starts, recognizing Sam’s voice and Sam’s other huge fucking hand as it curls around his waist, pulling him back into tight hard muscle, Sam’s mouth nuzzling at the curve of his neck.

“You know you’re not supposed to smoke in public buildings in this state,” Sam murmurs. His voice is easy, slow and languid and slurred with drink.

“I don’t care,” he retorts, rolling his eyes, Jesus, but Sammy’s such a nerd sometimes.

“Hmm, Dean, such a rebel,” Sam says, a fond mocking lilt to his voice. His mouth is warm on Dean’s neck, teeth scraping lightly against his skin. Dean shivers and lets himself relax for a moment, enjoying the familiar sensation of Sam pressed up against him.

“What were you talkin’ to Sarah about?” Sam says. The question breaks Dean’s mood immediately, and he stiffens, places his free hand on Sam’s, prying it away with an irritable grunt as he steps away from Sam.

“Get off me,” he mutters.

Sam’s mouth twitches, an expression of hurt flickering over his face. Sam’s incapable of hiding any emotion when he’s drunk.

“Why? What’s wrong?” he asks, looking like he’s actually fucking pouting.

“God, nothing’s wrong,” Dean retorts. “Just – quit manhandling me. You know I don’t like it, man.”

“Okay, okay, whatever you want,” Sam says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Hell, what’s crawled up your ass? What you been sayin’ to Sarah?”

“Nothing, we weren’t talkin’ ‘bout nothin’. Just karaoke, what I’m gonna sing.”

“Yeah?” Sam’s mouth twitches again, but this time it’s that amused, fond sort of a twitch. “So, you finally gonna man up and go on up there to sing? Gotta say, dude, it’s about fuckin’ time, thought you woulda been up there ages ago.”

“Yeah, well, I had other shit to think about,” Dean mutters darkly, casting another look towards Ross and Sarah in the booth. Ross has got his arm fully around her now, and their heads are close together, talking in this intimate fashion that makes something prickle at the back of his neck, irritable and itchy. He takes one last drag on his cigarette and stubs it out against the wall, dropping the butt to the floor.

“Right,” Sam says with an eye-roll. “Well, quit worrying about them, they’re fine.”

He fists one hand in Dean’s lapel and pulls him forward. Dean resists at first, too aware of the crowded bar, of his brother and that girl over in the booth, but Sam’s looking directly at him, eyes dark and glinting wickedly, and there’s this little bead of sweat on Sam’s neck and he just has to –

He surges forward, grabs a handful of Sam’s thick damp hair and pulls his head to one side, leaning in to lick off that tantalizing bead of sweat, the taste of his brother salty and tangy on his tongue, Sam’s skin warm and damp under his mouth.

“ _Jesus, Dean_ …” Sam moans. He feels Sam’s arm go around him, hand lowering to squeeze his ass and pull him in closer.

Dean smirks to himself and tilts his head back, their eyes meeting and locking, lips brushing when he speaks: “Now, I’m gonna sing myself some karaoke.”

He pulls away, giving Sam’s ass a slap, he can feel Sam’s gaze, heavy and hot, on him as he makes his way to the stage.

The chick in charge of the karaoke machine is everything Dean hates about college kids: faux-ripped pantyhose, artfully disheveled blond hair and a band t-shirt for _The Libertines_ , a band Dean’s never heard, and is pretty sure he never wants to. Still, she’s not immune to his charms, particularly when he tells her with a dreamy-eyed smile that he wants to sing this song, “for my boyfriend.” Her own expression goes sappy and she lets him skip to the front of the queue, though she looks puzzled by his choice of song.

“Really? You wanna do that? Is that, like, ironic?”

Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes, fucking college kids.

“Nah, it’s a freakin’ awesome song, sweetheart. That’s why I’m singing it.”

He takes the stage to a chorus of obnoxiously loud whoops and cheers from their booth, Sam and Ross both on their feet, fingers in their mouths to wolf-whistle at him.

He gifts the crowd with his biggest, evilest grin and announces: “Thank you, this one’s going out to my boyfriend, Sam. Love you, baby!”

There’s a nanosecond of shocked silence before Sam’s voice calls back, loud and drunk: “Love you, too, baby!”

The crowd gives a cheer and Dean shakes his head to himself, his eyes meeting Sam’s across the room, Sam’s grinning broadly, his eyebrows raised all: _bring it, bitch_ , style, and there’s no fucking way Dean’s not gonna go for it now. This is for Sammy after all, and if they were really in a couple then this is exactly the sorta lame shit he'd be doing. Hell, Sam will completely _love_ him for this, he's such a sucker for the big-style PDAs, and if it makes Sam happy, then Dean can work with that. He strikes a pose and starts to sing.

_“When I look into your eyes, I can see a love restrained; But darlin’ when I hold you, don’t you know I feel the same…”_

The crowd roars approval, apparently they’re either loving the irony or they can appreciate the awesomeness of a Guns ‘n’ Roses classic as well as he can. Sadly, this version of _November Rain_ turns out to be the four minute radio edit, fading out just at the point in the video where Slash stalks out the church into the desert for his rocking guitar solo.

“You sang _November Rain_ to me, I think that’s, like, the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done,” Sam says when he finally gets off the stage to the biggest cheer of the night (naturally). “And the most romantic.”

He pulls a face, “That wasn’t me bein’ romantic, Sammy, that was me bein’ an awesome fake boyfriend.”

Sam sniggers and drops a loud, smacking kiss onto Dean’s cheek, breathing into his ear, “Whatever, I know you meant every word, you gigantic sap.”

 

 

***************************

 

 

Ross kisses Sarah goodbye on her front doorstop, and just like a couple of nights ago, he can feel Dean and Sam watching him from the car. It makes his shoulder blades feel tingly, wrong and right, awful and awesome at the same time, and kinda like that time Dad caught him with the ruler trying to measure his dick, but also like the time he took that chick, Alison something, around the back of the gym and her friend Sylvia came along and watched and touched herself as they made out.

“You okay?” Dean asks afterwards when they’re packing up the crazy-ass disco motel room. “We could hang around a bit longer, or, you know, if you wanted you could stick around for a bit while me and Sam check out this sighting in Massachusetts.”

“You want to leave me behind?” he demands.

Dean looks surprised, shakes his head, “Fuck, no, course we don’t. I just thought that you might –“ he breaks off, bites his lip. “Thought you liked her, is all.”

“I do like her,” he finds himself saying, “but this is the job, right? The life. And we gotta… Dad might get in touch again, and we gotta, like, be ready when he does. Don’tcha think?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, but he doesn’t sound convinced, and he’s doing that thing where he doesn’t meet Ross’s eyes.

“Unless you and Sammy want some alone time. Want me out the way for a bit,” he adds bitterly.

“What? Jesus, kiddo, of course not. How could you think that?” Dean’s head jerks up, hands stilling where they’re in the middle of rolling up his jeans.

Ross shrugs defensively, “Just seemed like you really enjoyed bein’ his fake boyfriend, you know, like the other night? Like that’s what you really want, the two of you, to be like that, without me around all the fuckin’ time, getting in the way.”

Dean drops the pair of jeans to the bed and stalks around it, coming to a stop in front of Ross, putting his hands on Ross’s shoulders. Dean’s wearing his serious, pleading face, and Ross feels the words he's about to say catch at the back of his throat, his chest getting tight as he finally dares to meet his brother’s gaze.

“Ross, you’re our brother, we’re always gonna want you around. You gotta get that in your head, man. You gotta quit with this bullshit. You’re one of us, and we belong together, all three of us, four of us when Dad comes back. Right?”

“Right,” he repeats quietly.

Dean exhales, “Right, good, long as you get that in your thick head.”

“Hey,” he protests automatically, and Dean grins, that sudden genuine grin of his. He reaches out a hand to ruffle Ross’s hair and Ross ducks away from him, grumbling under his breath. Dean laughs out loud, “Little bitch,” he says.

It should feel normal and cool and just Dean being an annoying jerk like always, but it doesn’t. It feels strange, off, like they’re both playing parts – Dean annoying over-protective big brother and he the petulant little brother in need of big brother’s reassurance.

He stands in the doorway to their empty motel room and watches Dean throw his duffle into the trunk next to Sam’s, leaning against the open trunk to have one last cigarette before the drive north. Sam comes ambling over from the clerk’s office and pries the cigarette from Dean’s hand, taking one quick drag on it before he throws it to the ground. And shit, when did that happen? Sam smoking? When did he miss that? He can see Dean protesting, though he’s too far away to hear his words, he can see the mock outraged look on his face, but Sam just laughs and slaps his ass, simultaneously grabbing the keys from Dean’s hand, tossing them up in the air and catching them as he strides around to the driver’s seat. So Sam’s driving now, too?

Dean turns and this time Ross can hear his voice clearly, as he shouts: “Ross? You ready to go?”

He closes the door after himself and crosses the parking lot. He climbs into the backseat and scrunches up Sam’s hoodie to use as a pillow, closing his ears to Sam and Dean’s to and fro banter and his eyes to their over-familiar profiles.

When he finally wakes up they’re already in Massachusetts and Dean’s fallen asleep against the passenger side window. He stares at Dean’s profile from under his half-closed, still sleepy eyes and feels… something… He’s never been good at thinking about feelings – about his own feelings – feelings are just there, they’re there and you feel them: angry and frustrated one day, then happy and horny the next. But right now… he doesn’t know, has no fucking clue.

He thinks about Sarah, about Sam, about how she went for Sam first, because he could talk about art and he’d been to college, and yeah, going to college has done nothing to stop him being a ginormous dork and he still totally sucks at talking to chicks, but she’d gone for Sam first, didn’t even notice him until he turned up at dinner.

He nailed her though, had sex with her right here where he’s laying now, and there’s no fucking way Sam would’ve done that, he probably would’ve been too chicken shit, too polite, too gentlemanly to even go for the kiss. But he fucked her, right here, in this car; despite all those years of experience with Dean, Sam wouldn’t’ve done that.

He curls his fingers around the piece of paper in his pocket, the paper Sarah gave to him as they said goodbye hours earlier. Her email address, cell phone number, work number.

“You know, if you want to talk, or anything…” she said hesitantly, looking unsure as she held out the sheet of folded paper to him. “Just – don’t hesitate, you know, I’ll be happy to hear from you.”

“Even if it’s, like, in two years’ time, and you’ve got a boyfriend? And are, like, practically married?”

She smiled and took his hand in her own, forcibly curling his fingers around the paper. “Yeah. Even then. Ross, you saved my life, and you saved a lot of other people, what you and Sam and Dean did with the painting… it was incredible. And, you know,” her mouth tugged up into a smirk, her face flushing red, “that was fucking amazing sex. Every time. I haven’t had that kinda fun in, well, ever. So, if you guys are ever in the neighborhood… Or, like I said, if you want to talk about the job or your dad…” She trailed off, giving him a faint smile.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding, “yeah, thanks.” He could feel a lump in his throat threatening as he turned away from her, back towards the Impala, towards his brothers.

He withdraws his hand from his pocket with a sigh, opens his eyes fully to stare out the window, the brown fields and grey sky, the never-ending road. In the front seat, Dean is snoring quietly, Sam tapping his fingers against the wheel in time to the music on low, humming along tunelessly under his breath.

This is my life, he thinks. It’s familiar and comforting and it’s him, but for the first time in his life, he’s not sure he wants it anymore.

 

[Next Chapter](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/25271.html)


	16. Chapter 16

It sometimes seems to Dean that they’ve been searching for Dad for all his life; those few stolen moments in Chicago barely count, just enough time for them all to figure out that Dad is still here, still alive and still the same, still on his epic quest to kill the thing – the demon – that killed Mom. But even before all that, before Dad went missing, there were so many times when he was never there, just Dean and Ross and hunting, and then when he was there, he wasn’t really, not entirely, always so distracted, so wrapped up in his big life’s purpose, in the job.

This time around, Dad is about the last thing Dean expects. He’s been too busy figuring out their next move, how to fix things with Ross, how to define what’s happening with him and Sam and their “relationship”. Then there’s Sam and Ross’s freaky vision crap, Ross’s debilitating headaches and Sam’s guilt-ridden nightmares, and hell, just keeping the three of them fed, clothed, not arrested, not dead and not killing each other is a full-time mission. So, yeah… he’s been kinda distracted. Besides, it ain’t like Dad can’t look after himself, Dad doesn’t need, doesn’t want their help right now. Dad will turn up when he decides the time is right.

Apparently, that time is now.

The knock on the window of the Impala makes them all jump, three choruses of: “Holy shit!” and then, there’s Dad, peering through the window, grinning at them fast and loose, and crawling into the back seat next to Sam. There’s no hello, they’re all too shell-shocked for that, Dad just takes the envelope they picked up from dead Daniel Elkins’ post office box from Dean’s hands and swears under his breath while Dean’s still gulping for air, still trying to take in the fact that Dad is here, in the car, with them, sitting calmly in the backseat of the Impala next to Sammy – a place Dean would never expect to see his father sit – but it’s him, real and alive and in the flesh. _Dad_.

He’s looking for a gun. Not just any gun. A super-powerful antique Colt revolver that’s been stolen by vampires, and wait a fucking minute… vampires?

‘I thought vampires were extinct,” Dean says.

“So did I,” says Dad, glancing up to catch Dean’s eye before he starts dishing out the lore on apparently non-extinct vampires in a voice that makes Dean feel like a teenager once more, warm and protected and stupidly and ridiculously happy to have his father so close.

The warm feeling lasts until Dad finishes up his speech, and climbs out of the car to go back into his truck. Ross scrambles out the shotgun seat to join him, eyes shining with happiness as Dad slings an arm around him and pulls him close, Ross burrowing his face into Dad’s shoulder and holding on tight. Dean watches them through the windshield; they break apart and walk towards the truck, Dad still with one arm slung around Ross’s shoulders, making Ross look suddenly smaller and younger, like the skinny teenager he used to be.

Sam slides out the backseat, waves a hand to Dad and Ross, and slips into shotgun next to Dean. So far, so just like it always used to be, like it should always be, but when Dean catches a glimpse of Sam’s face, his good mood instantly falls away. Sam is not looking happy, staring out the window with a morose set to his jaw and that unhappy crease back between his eyebrows.

“Jeez, dude, why the long face?”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam mutters tiredly, not bothering to turn and look at him.

“Sam, c’mon, man. That was Dad. I thought you’d be happy to see him. _Dad_ , Sammy.”

“I know who Dad is, Dean.”

“Well, what the fuck’s with you? Dad’s back with us, where he belongs. And he’s safe. He’s still alive. That’s worth celebrating, ain’t it?”

“Like we’re gonna take time out of this hunt to celebrate anything. We’re gonna find this fucking gun and then he’ll just leave again, go fight and hunt the demon on his own. You know it; I know it, so stop pretending like this time’s gonna be any different.”

There’s a long pause, then Dean sighs, says: “I don’t get it, man; you were – you and Dad – I thought you’d made your peace… I thought –“

“What? That we have one freakin’ hug and we’d all be good again. That changes nothing, Dean. He still told me to leave, still threw me out, never made any effort to see how I was doing –“

“That’s not true,” interrupts Dean.

Sam pauses, turns to look at him, with wide unimpressed eyes: “Oh, yeah?” He huffs out a bitter laugh. “You know, all that time I knew you were checkin’ up on me, you and Ross. I saw you once; you were watching me this one time, standing on the other side of the lawns outside the Biology buildings. You really stood out, thought you were so stealthy.”

“I was stealthy.”

Sam’s mouth crooks, his eyes crinkle as he darts Dean a look, “Not so much.”

“Huh, well, whatever. Not like it matters now.”

“No, no, you’re wrong, it still matters,” Sam says. Dean frowns, glances sideways at his brother; Sam’s nibbling on his bottom lip, looking thoughtful. He raises his hand, taps his knuckles against the window, his big long fingers against the steamed up glass, the rain sloshing down the pane. “It’s like – you were always there, always checking up on me, I always knew that if something happened, something big went down, then you’d be there for me. With Dad… I never felt like that. It was all over. Like I wasn’t even a member of the family anymore. Like I didn’t deserve to be, just because I dared to want something different.”

“Sam, that’s not true. Dad never gave up on you, man. He used to swing by Palo Alto all the time. I know he did.”

Sam makes a small scoffing sound at the back of his throat, “Yeah, sure he did. Quit making excuses for him. You always do that, Dean.”

“No,” Dean insists, “he did. I know he did. Look, this one time – me and Ross – we were passin’ by, pulled into this motel, the usual one we used to stay at, the Palm Tree. And his truck was there, right outside the clerk’s office. Now, are you tellin’ me there’s any other goddamn reason Dad would be spending the night in freakin’ Palo Alto? Other than checkin’ up on you? Yeah, I don’t freakin’ think so.”

Sam goes quiet, and they ride the rest of the way back to the motel in silence.

It’s like the old days. Dad springs for two rooms: Dad and Ross in one, Dean and Sam in the other, thin papery motel wall between them. Ross stands in the doorway of his and Dad’s room and watches them exit the Impala with a strange brooding look on his face, Dean glances at him for a second before he looks away, hit by a sudden stab of real and terrifying guilt.

He shuts the door to his and Sam’s room quickly, and exhales in relief. Of course that just leaves him alone with Sam, who’s standing in the middle of the room glaring viciously at the wall dividing their room from Dad’s. Obviously their little heart-to-heart in the car went down about as well as Dean expected.

Great. Just great.

He throws his duffle on the bed, and goes to take a shower.

He’s in there for all of three minutes before the shower curtain sweeps back with a flourish, and he sees Sam through the steam. His mouth drops open in shock when Sam, still fully dressed, pushes him aside and climbs in there with him.

“Uh, Sam – what the fuck…”

His words are choked off when Sam raises a hand to Dean’s face, cushioning his cheek and swiping his thumb over Dean’s lips in a deliberate brooding sort of gesture.

“Turn around, Dean,” Sam growls.

It all happens in silence. Sam’s soap-slicked fingers work into him, scissor him open like they have every time before, his soaked T-shirt painful against Dean’s pebbled sensitive skin, denim clad crotch rough against Dean’s ass, belt buckles cutting into Dean’s flesh.

He cries out in pain when Sam pushes inside him, it hurts like it hasn’t hurt in a long time, it hurts as if Sam doesn’t care that it hurts, it hurts as if this is Sam’s goal. Sam’s hand comes around him, hugging him, pulling him back tighter, firmer, closer into his arms, so he’s enveloped, smothered in Sammy, as close as two people can get before they disappear into each other. Sam murmurs something low and desperate and unintelligible into Dean’s neck as his huge hand grasps Dean’s cock, he gives it a tug, mouth and teeth sinking into Dean’s shoulder as he jerks him to a brutal climax.

They don’t look at each other afterwards. Sam steps out the shower in his soaked clothes, and trembling, Dean pulls the curtain closed. His asshole is sore, raw and hollow with the ache; his skin chafed red and pink, scratches and marks on his neck and back from Sam’s mouth and teeth. He looks down his body, watches the water wash away the thick globs of translucent come clinging to his pubes. He turns around and slowly spreads his ass-cheeks, wincing in pain at the hot water drumming against his skin, but wanting, needing to be rid of it all, squelchy and thick and dirty in his ass, because Sam didn’t use a condom, not this time.

He pulls the curtain back and freezes in shock: Sam’s sitting on the bathroom floor, still wearing his drenched clothes, puddles of water surrounding him, head and hands pillowed on his raised knees, black sheen of soaking wet hair obscuring his face.

Dean stares at him, slowly turning the knob of the shower to OFF. The water stops and everything goes quiet, Sam flinches, shoulders stiffening, readying himself for something. Dean climbs out the tub and kneels beside him, trying not to wince too noticeably, but goddamn it, his ass hurts.

“Sammy?” he says softly.

Sam’s shoulders stiffen again, and Dean reaches out one hand, placing it between his brother’s shoulder blades. He’s cold to the touch, wet t-shirt sodden and stiff.

“C’mon, Sam, gotta get these clothes off, man,” he says.

Sam raises his head, and Dean has a sudden flashback to Sammy aged seven, tear-stained bloodied face after a fight with Ross. _I hate him; I hate him, Dean_ , spat out between swollen lips. _Why’s he even here anyway? I hate him so much_. Sam was still soft then; just seven years old, and he and Dad had never told him the truth about them, about the family business, about Mom. They’d protected him, looked after Sammy and then this new kid – this little brother – had arrived, unprotected and uncaring, and everything had changed.

Sam raises his arms, lets Dean tug the sodden shirt off him, the heavy cotton sticking around his elbows, his thick muscled arms.

“I’m sorry,” says Sam, his voice sounding about as watery as the damn floor.

“Nothin’ to be sorry for.”

“Yeah, no, I – I shouldn’t’ve. Not like that, Dean. I hurt you.”

“Not so much,” he lies. He manages to get the shirt over Sam’s head. He throws it across the floor and it lands with a dull splat on the linoleum.

“You’re lying,” says Sam soberly. He’s biting his lip, not looking at Dean, cold black strands of hair plastered to his face, droplets of water beaded on his eyelashes and red-rimmed eyes. “You’re sitting funny.”

Dean kinda wants to laugh, ‘cause yeah, he is, and thanks for that, Sam.

“S’not like I ain’t used to it. Get beaten up pretty fuckin’ regular, this is no different.”

“Yes it is.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. He wants to sigh out loud in exasperation. He thought they were past this, Sam’s been happy these last months, accepting of everything, even through all the shit with Ross, through their last run-in with Dad, though Dean’s beginning to appreciate right now just how much that did fuck him up. But Sam’s been here, with him, reliable and steady and seemingly content (save for the nightmares), while Dean and Ross have been the ones freaking out, the ones who have been floundering and flailing about, lost and confused.

“Sam, c’mon, man, quit it. You got nothing to apologize for. Seriously.”

Sam just makes a sound at the back of his throat, a low pained noise. Dean sighs, leans back against the side of the tub, bringing his knees up to his chest to rest his elbows on, tug his fingers through his wet hair.

Okay, so maybe Sam’s mini freak-out does have a point. That fuck was brutal and possessive, and all about dominance, all about Sam claiming him, and he’s still trying to get his head around it, process the fact that that was him and Sam. Sure, sometimes things can be rough between them, they’re two guys (two brothers) who kill things for a living, and he’s happy to admit that they do get off on the brotherly power dynamic between them, nothing gets him harder quicker than Sam hissing low and filthy in his ear: _“You gonna get on your knees to suck my cock, big brother?”_

So, yeah… they’re both pretty twisted, he knows that. But this was different, for the first time ever Sam didn’t try to make it good for him, didn’t seem to care that he was hurting. Sam used him, for his own need, pleasure, catharsis, whatever it was…

“I shouldn’t’ve done it. I don’t know what…” Sam’s voice interrupts Dean’s thoughts; he jerks his head up, hears the words catch in Sam’s throat as he tries again: “I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I wasn’t thinking, Dean,” he breaks off and clenches his fists. “I just. I shouldn’t take it out on you. Just ‘cause Dad – ‘cause Dad’s a fucking ass. And just ‘cause – everything between me and Dad and -” He breaks off again with a nasty sounding chuckle, hand going up to fist his wet hair, push it out his face.

Dean sighs, “Yeah, well, get over it. Seriously, Sammy, put it to the back of your mind, just – forget about it, okay? We can deal with that shit later.”

Sam gives a hollow laugh, “Always your advice: forget about it. Well, sometimes, it’s not that easy.”

“Bullshit. It _is_ that easy. You just – you ain’t tryin’ hard enough. Anyway, this time, man, I don’t wanna hear it. I want him to stick around. It’s Dad, Sam! Please, just – let me have this, okay?” He lifts his head, eyes meeting Sam’s; Sam’s staring back at him, eyes wide and shiny, “Sam?” he prompts.

Sam gulps, and nods, a quirk of his lips, that small fond curl to his mouth, “Yeah, okay.”

“Good,” Dean exhales. He puffs out his cheeks, shakes his head at his brother. “Now, c’mon, dude, gotta get you out of these wet clothes. Like a freakin’ emo kid, wallowing here in soaking wet clothes.”

Sam rolls his eyes at him, and Dean snorts, leans in to fumble with Sam’s jeans. The denim is soaked, stiff and chafing, the zipper still down, Sam’s now flaccid cock half hanging out, looking unusually small. He touches it with his fingertips; it feels strange, soft and squidgy and nothing like what he’s used to, usually by the time he gets to touch his brother’s cock, he’s at least half-hard, after all, Sam’s cock freaking loves him.

He wraps his fingers entirely around Sam’s soft cock. He can feel it start to thicken as he uses his other hand to pull down Sam’s jeans, the stiff wet denim hard to maneuver as he tugs them down the length of Sam’s long legs. Sam gives him some cursory help, kicking his feet and using one foot to push the rest off until he’s just wearing his drenched boxers, half-hard cock poking through the slit, Dean’s hand wrapped around it.

“You don’t have to do this,” Sam says.

“Do what? Look after you? Been doin’ that all my life, dude, you know that.”

“You don’t have to do it anymore,” repeats Sam, huffing out a wry painful smile. “You shouldn’t have to. I’m a grown man.”

“Yeah, tell that to you and your brother,” Dean retorts.

“Poor Dean, my poor Dean,” Sam murmurs, one big hand going out to cradle Dean’s face, thumb tracing a delicate path over Dean’s lips. “I forced you,” he whispers, low and quiet, his face scrunching up as the words struggle past his lips.

“Sam, for Christ’s sake,” Dean mutters. “No. You didn’t. I could’ve pushed you away anytime I wanted.”

“But, Dean –“

“It never occur to you that maybe I wanted to be taken hard and fast and rough like that? That I found it, uh, _hot_?” he raises his eyebrows, his best leer in place. It’s not entirely the truth, (though he had come pretty fast), it was too unusual, too un-Sam-like to be really what he wanted, and it was strange, and unsettling: the silence, the roughness, the way Sam hadn’t even gotten changed out of his clothes. But, hell, it was still sex with Sam, it was still the two of them, and he’s never not going to want that, however weird it is.

“You’re twisted,” says Sam, but he’s got a small smile on his face, watery and fond through the wetness in his eyes. “Kinky, Dean.”

“Yeah, whatever, guilty as charged.” He shrugs. “Now, get your ass in the shower, and I’ll suck you off.”

 

 

 

“Sammy looks good,” says Dad, and Dean stops in the middle of reading through the pages of research Sam dug up at the local library, amazed for a moment that Dad can been so blind. He swallows, feeling a mixture of relieved and guilty. “You been lookin’ after him good, Dean. That’s good.”

He nods stiffly. He never knows how to take it when Dad says nice shit like that.

“But what’s going on with my boy?”

Dad’s voice is hard, gaze steely when he meets Dean’s eyes. Dean tries not to flinch, he really does. But he has to look away, can’t meet Dad’s eyes.

“Uh, what do you mean, sir?” he says finally.

“He’s not himself,” says Dad.

He doesn’t know what to say. How can Dad be so blind when it comes to Sam, and yet with Ross… because Dad’s right. Ross is not good, not happy. He’s been wrong ever since Sam came back, ever since Jess died.

And now, God, everything’s so fucked up and he has no idea, no fucking clue what to do to put it right. What the three of them have been doing together, this weird crazy sort of madness that seems to have taken over their lives, like that play Ross and Sammy were in years ago – _Lord of the Flies_ – schoolboys all let loose on an island, away from their parents. And he’s trying to set it right, but he just -

“Dean,” prompts Dad, and Dean suddenly wants to confess, wants to break down and tell him, tell his dad everything, beg him to put it right, to put them all right, put them back together like they used to be, like before Sammy left. But he’s scared, terrified, if Dad ever found out, if he knew about Ross…

“I don’t, uh, I don’t know. He missed you,” he says, because that part – that’s true. “He missed you a lot, sir.”

Dad looks momentarily taken aback by that, almost guilty behind the never-ending stoic mask. And yeah, maybe he deserves that, maybe it’s time that he took on some of the blame for all this, because however Dean looks at it, he knows that it isn’t _all_ his fault. Everything that’s wrong with Ross, that’s wrong with Sam, that’s wrong with DeanandSamandRoss, all the shit they’ve been going through these past months, some of it is Dad’s fault.

If Dad hadn’t gone missing then he wouldn’t’ve gone to get Sam, wouldn’t have fucked up his perfect life at Stanford, and he and Sam wouldn’t’ve gotten involved again, and without that, without the knowledge of his and Sam’s relationship - whatever you want to call it - to deal with everyday, he’s pretty fucking sure Ross would never have even thought about Dean in that way.

But he’s just kidding himself. It’s not Dad’s fault, not really. So he left, left him and Ross without even a fucking text message, but Dean’s the one who fucked up. He should never have gone to get Sammy, it was a selfish decision, done because he was weak, because he missed Sam too much and because Dad being missing was the perfect excuse. If he hadn’t done that, if he’d been strong and kept away from Sam, then they wouldn’t be where they are now: Sam clinging to him, needing and wanting him far more than he ever used to, having given up his long cherished dreams of a normal life to devote everything to hunting, to revenge, but mainly to him, giving it all up to be with him. And Ross… there wouldn’t be this dirty little thing between them, and Ross wouldn’t look at him in _that_ way because Dean would never have touched Ross. Never.

“I did what I had to, Dean, you know that. I have to protect you boys.”

“I know, I know, Dad, I do. But Ross, he, uh, he just missed you.”

Dad nods sharply, his dismissive nod, and that’s it, subject closed.

“C’mon, let’s go meet up with your brothers.”

They meet up with Ross and Sam in a roadside diner; they’ve got their heads bent over a local survey map, discussing something in low, serious tones of voice. Their heads jerk up simultaneously as Dean and Dad stride in, matching expressions and matching eyes raking over the two of them with identical raised eyebrows. Dean swallows, feeling Sam’s gaze linger long over him after they’ve taken a seat, making his spine tingle and his ass throb in remembrance of the night before. He edges into the booth beside him, trying to disguise the immediate wince as his still sore ass hits the bench.

“You okay there, Deano?” asks Ross.

His eyes flash towards Ross. His little brother’s watching him through narrowed eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, just peachy, kiddo,” he says, meeting Ross’s stare and raising him a death-glare.

Ross shrugs it off; he’s been immune to that look for years. “That’s good. Wouldn’t want you to go into the fight with you know… any _injuries_.”

“Dean, if you’re carryin’ any injuries, then you need to speak up now,” says Dad, raising his eyes briefly from the menu.

“I’m fine, Dad. Like I said, just peachy. Though thanks for askin’, Littlest Bro. Nice to know you care.” He smirks at Ross who glowers and looks away.

Beside him, Sam shifts, legs relaxing outwards so their thighs brush, he knows if he turns to look at Sam that he’ll be smirking, trying not to laugh out loud. He returns the pressure, and Sam’s foot hooks around his ankle so they’re completely lined up, touching ankle to hip.

“My, what a fine family y’all make,” says the middle-aged waitress with a welcoming grin to all of them, her eyes lingering when they reach Dad.

Dad smiles, easy and charming, and Dean’s hit by it – Dad – here, God, Dad, and he misses him so much for a second that he feels nauseous with it.

“Thanks, Susan,” says Dad, already noticing and cataloging her name badge. She blushes and he grins that slow easy grin again. “How about you tell me what’s good today.”

Dean finishes his meal and pushes his plate away, running one hand over his face, stubble rasping under his ring. He can feel both Sam and Ross’s eyes on him and the knowledge makes his stomach flip, an unwanted flinch of something deep and dark and hot in his belly, knowing that both his little brothers are watching him so intently. Sam slides his hand under the table, resting it big and warm on Dean’s thigh, he squeezes hard and Dean swallows, eyes darting around anxiously, hoping Dad hasn’t noticed anything. Dad hasn’t, he’s devouring his cheeseburger with the same single-minded attention he gives everything; Ross, however, is a different matter, he’s watching the two of them through narrowed, slitted eyes, his eyes darkening when his gaze crosses with Dean’s.

Dean ducks his head, slides his hand under the table and pushes Sam’s hand away, muttering, “Don’t,” low and hissed under his breath.

Sam smiles serenely, and leans back in the booth, arm sprawling out along the length of the bench seat so his fingers are brushing against the nape of Dean’s neck, that sensitive spot, teasing asshole.

Finally, Dad finishes his meal and pushes his own food away, he leans forward in his seat and they all follow suit. From a distance they must look like a conspiracy, all four of them, heads only inches apart, breathing each other’s air.

Dad starts to outline the plan, Dean glances up, Ross’s face is lit up, eyes locked on Dad with a expression that’s close to reverent. He unhooks his ankle and shifts minutely away from Sam, Sam’s mouth twitches, but he betrays nothing, he too is completely focused on Dad, on the plan, on what’s about to go down, on what Dad’s about to tell them:

_"In 1835 Samuel Colt invented a gun that could kill anything…”_

 

 

 

They get it in the end, a Winchester win, says Ross with a grin. It’s what he always used to call it when it all worked out and Dad came back safe: a Winchester win.

Dad claps Ross on the back, squeezes his shoulder and says they all could do with a drink.

“Cause we’re all legal now,” says Ross.

“Y’all make me feel old,” complains Dad but he’s smiling when he pours their shots. He raises his glass, eyes on Sam, “Sammy? You want to make the toast?”

Sam hesitates for a second, then grins, that big genuine smile of his that makes Dean’s stomach twist up. He raises his own shot, “To us,” Sam says. “And nailin’ that sonofabitch, because we’re gonna get it,” he looks at Dad, “together.”

Dad’s mouth twitches for a moment, then he nods, eyes flinty tough, “You’re goddamned right we are.”

“Awesome,” says Dean and downs his, watching the others follow suit. His eyes flick to the Colt lying on the nearest bed on a sheet of newspaper. The Colt, it’s the kinda word that has to be capitalized. That weapon – it can finish this – finish everything Dad’s been working for his entire life. A freaking gun.

Dad chuckles at something Ross says, hand coming out to ruffle through Ross’s hair, fond curve to his mouth. “What happened here?” he says.

Ross ducks away from Dad’s hand, flushes, touches his hair self-consciously.

“Dunno,” he says, “just – don’t wanna get it cut.”

Dad shakes his head, eyes flicking from Ross to Sam. “Just like your brother, huh? I swear, you two boys get more alike, the more I see you.”

Ross shrugs, ducks his head, not meeting Dad’s eye, his cheeks flushed. Dean kicks him under the table and Ross’s head jerks up, he scowls at Dean and Dean grins back at him. This – this right now – it’s almost too good to be true: the four of them together, knocking back the shots, a win, a nest full of dead vamps, a super-awesome fucking gun that can actually kill that sonofabitch that took away their mom. It don’t get better than this.

“So, how about you boys tell me what you’ve been up to these past few months,” says Dad after another round of shots.

Dean’s brain fizzes, short-circuits and actually fucking stops dead for a second, leaving him blinking in terror and unable to look up, unable to meet his Dad's or his brothers’ eyes. The second seems to last for an eternity, and he nearly fucking passes out in relief when Dad adds:

“I wanna hear all about these hunts you’ve been doin’, what y’all’ve learned.”

Dean still can’t speak, and is it seriously possible to be rendered mute with relief – because he thinks he’s about there. Somewhere in the background, he hears Sam laugh shakily (evidently Sammy’s thought-process had taken the exact same dive his did) and start to talk. Soon, Sam and Ross are competing with each other to tell Dad the best most daring-sounding version of some of the hunts they’ve gotten through, looking to Dean for back-up and details, matching expressions of one-upmanship and glee on their faces, eyes lit up, mouths wide and smiling in that way that makes it hard for Dean to watch them without feeling dazzled.

Dean doesn’t bother interrupting, letting them tell the tale, watching them interact with Dad and each other, feeling a warm glow in his chest, love and affection and something else that he doesn’t want to analyze too closely. He catches Sam’s eyes over the table and sees them darken, gleaming and predatory, and he knows Sam’s thinking about the same thing. He watches Sam sit back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him, fingers playing idly with the label on his beer bottle, letting Ross tell the story of the pathetic ghost-busting duo in West Texas they’d run into. He looks completely relaxed and at ease, face flushed with alcohol and mouth playing a small amused smile, it makes Dean fidget in his seat, desperate with the urge to touch him.

Ross finishes up the story with a laugh, stumbles out his seat to go to the bathroom. “Oops,” he says, tripping over the edge of the couch with a shriek of laughter.

“I think someone’s had enough for one night,” says Dad, looking amused.

“Aw, fuck, fuck,” mutters Ross, scrambling into a sitting position, “I’m _fine_ , Dad. God.”

Dean snorts, exchanges a look with Dad, he gets out of his seat, and whoa, he feels more than a little unsteady himself, the room hitching and tipping. That’s always the thing – it’s all good until you have to get up. He bends over Ross, grabs his arm, pulls him to his feet. “C’mon, kiddo.”

Ross’s expression goes softer, spongy and malleable and he leans into Dean, lets Dean take his weight, his breath a hot pant against Dean’s neck.

“He alright?” grunts Dad.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine.”

“You need a hand there?”

“No, no, I’m fine, Dad.”

“Good. Put him to bed. And you and Sammy get outta here. We got an early start tomorrow.”

“Yes sir,” he replies automatically.

He sees Sam get to his feet from the corner of his eye, pick up his hoodie from the back of the chair and walk out of there, leaving the motel room door open behind him. In his arms, Ross lurches, turning so he’s facing Dean, head resting on Dean’s shoulder. Dean tightens his grip on him and starts to maneuver them closer to one of the beds.

“Dean,” Ross whispers. Dean stills, flinching when he feels Ross’s mouth on his neck, tongue swiping against his skin. _Shit._

“C’mon, let’s get you to bed, littlest bro,” he says loudly, hefting Ross away from him, and tumbling him to the bed. Ross sprawls on his back and looks up at Dean with a petulant look on his face.

“You’re no fun tonight, Dean.”

_Shit. Shit._

“Yeah, well, fun’s over, dude. Sleep time’s now.”

“Yeah, right,” scoffs Ross. “Like you an’ Sammy gonna be sleepin’.” He laughs bitterly, words slurring as he slumps onto his front, as if he’s presenting his ass to Dean. He stares down at him, at the curve of Ross’s denim clad ass, remembers running his hand over it, squeezing the flesh, playing with his brother’s balls.

“Everything okay here, boys?”

He jumps, blushing and flinching when he feels Dad’s hand on his shoulder. He swallows, ducks his head, hiding his flushed guilty cheeks from his father.

“Uh, yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine. Ross’s just gonna sleep now. And I’m, uh, I’m going to bed, too.”

He straightens ups, and feeling steadier, turns to flash Dad a reassuring grin, curling his fingers around the crushed packet of cigarettes in his pocket, _God_ , he needs a smoke.

“We’re leaving at 0800 hours, Dean,” says Dad.

Dean hesitates in the doorway, turning his head slightly to nod at Dad, Dad’s staring back at him, blank unreadable look on his face, he nods and leaves quickly.

He doesn’t go back to the room straight away, instead he paces around outside, smoking his cigarette because there’s no fucking way Sam’ll let him smoke in the room. Anyway, he doesn’t want to go in there yet, he feels odd, jittery, for once the nicotine’s not working properly to calm his shot to shit nerves. Goddamnit, that was… getting Ross drunk like that, stupid little dick, that was fucking close. He thinks suddenly of something Ross said about Dad, that morning when he told them that he knew, that he’d known for six fucking years, _I don’t know, I think he suspected…_ Shit.

He heads back to their room, closing the door carefully behind him, shrugging off his jacket…

“Dean?”

He spins around to see Sam come out of the bathroom, soaking wet and wearing a towel knotted around his waist that looks miniature on him, torso bare, hair flat and dripping down his face. Dean stops still, frozen to the spot, the breath catching in the back of his throat, a tight prickle of heat pooling in his belly. Sam is… Sam’s so different now, not the skinny lanky kid he almost expects to see when he looks at him, particularly now with Dad being around, but Sam’s not that anymore, instead he’s this big tall dude who’s, let’s face it, ridiculously fucking hot.

It didn’t use to be like this. He never remembers finding Sam physically attractive in the old days, before he left, it wasn’t about that. It was something else, it was getting to the person Sam was underneath everything, being something for his brother who needed him and desired him above all others, it was making Sam feel special and feeling special himself because someone as smart and amazing as Sam wanted him.. It was something bigger than the two of them – something that made him feel ripped apart, left open and bare and stupidly vulnerable, something that he couldn’t help feeling – _wrong love._

It wasn’t about physical attraction, that was too weak, that was something he could get from any chick or any dude in a bar, with Sam it was much more than that. When he was with Sam, he actually believed that there were such things as souls and that his and Sam’s were supposed to be together. And yes, he knew it was pathetic and he would seriously fucking kill himself if anyone ever found out that he – Dean Winchester – was having such lame thoughts about ”two souls coming together” for fuck’s sake, but this was him and Sam. This was something else. Besides, Sammy was young (Jesus, fifteen years old) when this thing started up between them, so the idea of finding him attractive was pretty fucking creepy, not that actually having sex with him was not creepy, because yeah, it kinda was. It just… it wasn’t like that.

When he saw him again, in that apartment in Palo Alto, up close and not from a distance, not across a library floor or a perfectly kept lawn… _oooh boy…_ He can remember the gut punch, the slam-dunk to his chest that made his heart race and the zing-bolt of want flair up in his stomach, flashpoint to his cock, getting him harder fast than a hard-core porn-fest. And it was like he was like watching it in Technicolor: the whoosh of blood through his arteries, burst of sweat and heat to every pore, the one thought banging around his head: _Jesus Christ, but Sammy is fuckin’ hot…_ It was the cheesiest scene from every cheesy movie when the two protagonists see each other from across a crowded room, like fucking _Fatal Attraction_ , and he wanted, wanted so badly to be banging Sam in the goddamn elevator right then and there. But he held back, smile-smirked and stared greedily at him when Sam was looking elsewhere.

He breaks out of his momentary stupor and turns to snap the lock on the door, draw the curtains. When he turns around again, Sam is still standing there, still in his tiny towel, a considering, thoughtful look on his face. Dean wets his lips, says clearly:

“Drop the towel.”

Sam’s lip twitches but he obeys, unknotting the towel, letting it slide down his long, long legs to pool around his feet. Dean murmurs approval, his eyes raking hungrily over Sam’s body, taking in every single inch of it, Sam’s cock slowly growing and thickening as Dean keeps looking, rising up to a perfect 90’ angle.

“You done lookin’?” Sam asks, tilting his head and smirking at him.

“Nuh-uh, no way,” Dean answers. He keeps his eyes locked on Sam as he toes off his boots, kicking them aside to advance on his brother, Sam standing his ground and watching him with that same predatory gleam in his eyes as earlier in the evening. Dean stops just in front of him and places his palm flat on Sam’s chest, fingers pressing into the hard muscle and slippery wet skin. He pushes, forces Sam to walk backwards, stumbling when the back of his legs hit the bed, falling back into an elegant sprawl, thighs spread, cock thick and bobbing as it meets his flat, hard belly.

Dean takes a step back, smirks. “Stay there,” he commands. “And don’t touch yourself.”

Sam says nothing, eager to obey. Dean raises his hand to flick open the buttons of his shirt, shrug it over his shoulders, slide his belt out of his pants so it coils to the floor. He watches Sam closely: sees the flutter of his eyelashes, the red spread of color from his cheeks to his neck to his chest, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, long gorgeous fingers digging into his thighs hard enough to leave marks.

He needs to do this, he needs to be back in charge again, show Sam that he’s the big brother. He’s let Sam have his way too often, let him think he can get away with everything, just a flash of dimples and soft hurt eyes and Dean’s a sucker, ready to do whatever Sammy wants, and that might be true most of the time, but Sam needs to be told once again that Dean’s the oldest, Dean’s in charge, (at least when Dad ain’t around).

He knows it’s his fault, he’s been distracted, lost, confused by all this mess with Ross, but Dad’s back now and they need to put things right, get things in order before they go confront this demonic sonofabitch. He needs to be in control of something for once in his entire sorry life because he has no freaking idea what happens next.

His t-shirt is next, sliding over his head in an easy fluid motion, then he’s naked from the waist up, jeans unbuttoned. He places his palm over his chest, caressing his skin as he smoothes it slowly down his abs and belly, touching himself, letting himself enjoy it, fingers tingling as they ghost over his nipples and stomach muscles. He hears Sam’s sharp intake of breath and he smirks, feeling his own cock twitch as his hand slides lower, fingers brushing up against his pubes, ducking under his waistband. He doesn’t normally like doing this – putting on a show like a fucking male stripper – hell, he doesn’t need to do this, never really needs to make the effort, people usually want to fall into bed with him, and Sammy, well… Sam’s always been so easy, but this time he’s going to make Sam crazy, wants to send him there.

He pushes Sam backwards, climbs onto the bed to straddle him, he seizes Sam’s wrists and yanks his hands over his head, pinning him to the mattress. Sam is breathing heavily underneath him, chest rising and falling with panted breaths, eyelashes fluttering over dark dilated pupils.

“I’m gonna fuck you,” Dean whispers. “Gonna give it to you hard and fast, little brother.”

Sam lets out a moan, teeth biting into his bottom lip, Dean leans down, licks a long dirty path over his brother’s mouth, over those nibbling teeth, slicking saliva over Sam’s pink lips. He leans back to catch his breath, tangle his fingers in Sam’s hair to twist his head, bare his neck and sink his teeth into soft unsuspecting skin. Sam trembles beneath him, letting out more helpless moans, he always goes crazy for this – for Dean’s teeth on this one spot, this pressure point, and God, Dean wants to bite him, the urge to devour, to eat, to consume him makes his knees shake, his body press down on Sam’s, blanket him from head to toe, grind his denim clad crotch against Sam’s erection.

“Get on your knees,” he snarls.

He sits back, shucks down his jeans, his eyes not leaving Sam as Sam slowly turns over, getting to trembling knees, head ducked and dark mop of hair falling over his face. Dean leans over him, fisting his own cock in one hand, the other squeezing and massaging Sam’s round ass cheeks, pressing red marks into the comically pale flesh. He pushes his fingers into Sam’s mouth, Sam sucks greedily, making loud, slurping sounds, tongue running over the sensitive pads of Dean’s fingertips, making him shiver as Sam whimpers. He pulls his fingers out, thick threads of spit, slick and translucent, syrupy thick trails that he works into Sam’s asshole, one finger, then two, quick and impatient, Sam’s ass muscles clenching around him, his moans getting louder in the silent room.

“Shut up, be quiet,” Dean hisses, his mind jumping to Dad and Ross in the neighboring room. He should’ve thought of that, should’ve put on the TV, remembered how goddamn noisy Sam gets when he’s being fucked, or when he’s doing the fucking, hell, how goddamn noisy Sam always gets with sex.

Sam snaps his mouth shut, twists his head so his eyes meet Dean’s, burning shining gaze, the ring of hazel around his pupils almost vanished with his arousal. “Do it,” he murmurs, lips glistening and pink as they work around the words. “Fuckin’ do it already, Dean. No lube, don’t need no fuckin’ lube.”

“Good, ‘cause I ain’t using any.”

He doesn’t hesitate, pulls his fingers out, lines up his saliva slick cock and pushes in, forcing through the hard tight entrance, up and up, deeper and deeper inside his brother, until he’s there, balls pressing up against Sam’s ass, the two of them joined like a freaking ball socket.

“Dean?” Sam gasps.

“I’m here, can’t you feel it?” Sam’s breath hitches, a small amused sound that catches at the back of his throat. “My huge throbbing man-beast in your tight little hole?” Dean whispers, amusement coating his words.

Sam huffs a laugh again, reaches behind to slap Dean on the thigh; Dean’s smile widens, he catches Sam’s hand, twines their fingers together and squeezes hard. He starts to thrust, counting the beats in his head, feeling the building, bubbling pleasure deep in his gut, his chest, his groin, his dick so thick and hard in Sam’s ass. Sam’s pushing back greedily, meeting every slam of Dean’s hips, letting Dean in deeper and deeper, panting for breath, fingers a death grip on Dean’s hand.

They keep quiet, no words this time, no murmured, “Oh yeah, right there, so good, so fuckin’ hot, God, Sam, God, Dean, want you, so fuckin’ amazing…” not when their father’s on the other side of that wall, the room already alight with the sound of their panted mingled breathing.

“Jesus… God… Sam…” But even with his awareness of their dad so near, it's too much, and Dean can’t help the words tumbling from his panting breathless mouth as he comes. He pulls out of Sam, rolls him over to jack himself off, ride the last moments of his orgasm and paint Sam’s gleaming gorgeous body with it. Sam’s cock is still hard, he can never come while Dean is still inside him, so Dean takes him into his mouth, sucks him off with a couple of swoops of his tongue, and then Sam is coming and crying, fingers clawing helplessly at Dean’s arms and shoulders, panting out his name.

Dean collapses to the bed beside his brother and pants for air; his tongue is coated with Sam’s release, his whole body covered in Sam’s sweat.

“That was freakin’ amazing,” Sam breathes, he turns his head, presses a kiss against Dean’s cheek. “You’re amazing.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean answers smugly.

Sam chuckles, squeezes Dean’s thigh, “I think I kinda like it when you take control like that.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re secretly a slutty little bottom who likes to pretend he’s a big manly top.” Dean rolls to his side, props himself up on one elbow to look down at Sam. “But I’m on to you, dude.”

Sam pulls a face, “Whatever. You’ve got jizz your chin.”

“Well it wouldn’t be the first time.”

He smirks and rolls off the bed, getting to his feet to pad to the bathroom, “First shower’s mine!”

 

 

 

He awakes with a jolt to the sound of Sam’s voice, his helpless, agonized cries beating against his ears:

_Jess, no, no, I promise, I didn’t… I’m so sorry, baby… Jess, no! NO!_

“Sam? Sammy?”

Sam’s thrashing beside him, eyes wide, stricken, wet with fear and tears while his mouth keeps working, babbling pleas and curses.

“Sam, c’mon, man, it’s okay, I’m here. Sammy, it’s okay, it’s me, it’s Dean…”

But Sam isn’t hearing him, he’s caught up in whatever nightmare has him tonight, squirming and trapped in their cocoon of blankets and his own fucked-up head.

_“Boys? Dean? Sam? What’s going on in there?”_

Dean freezes at the sound of his father’s voice, his heavy knock at their flimsy room door.

He gulps, slides out of bed and opens the door to his father. Dad strides past him, pushing Dean aside as he moves to snap on the light, bathing the room in harsh bright light. Dean blinks and stares at him: he’s still wearing the same clothes from earlier, the same rumpled jeans and shirt; he can’t have even gone to bed.

“What’s going on?” he demands.

Dean’s mouth works soundlessly, he thrusts out his hand, indicates the bed, “Sammy, uh, he’s havin’ a nightmare.”

“I can see that,” growls Dad. “Why haven’t you woken him up, Dean?”

“I, uh, sometimes, I can’t,” Dean stammers. Dad turns to look at him, eyes dark and narrowed, for a long moment Sam’s moans and pleas fade away, and Dean’s only aware of his father’s gaze, piercing into him, rummaging through his head, picking out the truth from the bullshit. He swallows, ducks his head, needing to look away.

“Why is the other bed still made?” Dad asks, his voice as clear as glass.

 _Shit_. Dean freezes, heart speeding up, stomach fluttering, his eyes dart over the room: one bed, they only used one bed, the same bed for fucking, for sleeping, the other still made, strewn with weapons and research, so obviously untouched, he was going to mess it up in the morning, never thought that Dad would come by during the night…

“Dean. Answer me. Why were you sleeping in the same bed as your brother?”

“We, uh, were sharin’,” he whispers, “’cause of this – his nightmares. He gets so fucked-up with it… I, uh, I have to…” he trails off hopelessly, tries to swallow, but his throat has dried up along with the words, mouth and lips as dry and parched as sand.

The silence is long and devastating, broken only by the sound of Sam’s helpless moans, quieter now, he’s coming out of it, he’ll wake soon, it’s the usual pattern.

“Wake him up. Deal with it, Dean. We’ve got a long drive tomorrow, I want you boys alert and you won’t be if you don’t get some sleep. If we’re doing this then we’re carrying no passengers.”

The words are final, one last command, and Dad’s gone, door closing behind him like a book slamming shut. End of chapter.

Dean stands in the middle of the room, fingers fisting and unfisting, heart hammering, breath caught in his throat.

_Shit, oh God, shit, he knows, he’s got to know, he knows, how long has he known?_

“Dean?” Sam’s voice jolts him back to the present. He spins around, stares at his brother. Sam’s awake, blinking at the fierce overhead light, hand raised to shield his eyes. “Was Dad here?”

“Yes,” Dean swallows. “He just left. You, uh, you okay?”

Sam says nothing, lets out a long exhausted breath. Dean bites his lip, moves to sink to the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under his weight, he stretches out a hand, pushes Sam’s damp thick hair off his forehead. “The Jess dream again?”

“It’s always that dream,” Sam says soberly. His voice sounds flat, drained. “She’s there, on the ceiling, right there, and I can’t reach her, I can’t save her. She always burns.” He breaks off, licks his lips, there are tears beading at the edges of his pink dark-circled eyes, “We have to get this thing, Dean. For her, I have to – it’s my fault, if I’d been there –“

“Then you’d be dead too,” Dean cuts in.

“I shouldn’t’ve left; I should never have gone with you guys. Hell, I should never have gone to fuckin’ college, if I hadn’t met her then she’d still be alive –“

“You don’t know that,” Dean insists.

“Dean, c’mon!” Sam shrugs Dean’s hand off him. “That’s bullshit and you know it! Jess died because of me! S’fuckin’ obvious.” He pushes the covers aside, and brushing past Dean, slides out of bed, heading for the bathroom.

Dean sits on the edge of the bed for a moment, staring down at his fingers, lying loose and useless in his lap, he hears the sound of Sam moving around the bathroom, toilet flushing, tap running, shower cranking awake. He can’t think right now, this is too much. _Dad knows. He didn’t even act surprised. He didn’t sound surprised. But he said nothing. But he knows._

He gets to his feet automatically, moving to lean against the doorframe, needing to be near Sam. Sam’s sitting on the closed lid of the toilet with his head in his hands, the steady drum of the shower loud and claustrophobic in the room.

“Sammy? Whatcha doin’?”

“Having a shower, what’s it look like?” comes Sam’s muffled response.

The belligerent pissy tone to Sam’s voice reminds Dean sharply of Ross, and he feels the absurd urge to laugh out loud, despite everything, this whole fucked-up mess. Dad –

“I think Dad knows,” he says suddenly.

Sam’s head jerks up; he stares at Dean, blinks. “What?”

“About us, you and me. I think he knows. Fact is I’m pretty sure he does.”

Sam licks his lips again, like he’s buying himself some time to take it in, another freaking blow, another punch to the gut. “Shit,” he says finally.

It’s kinda a lame summation on the entire situation and Dean can feel that urge to laugh out loud bubbling up even stronger, maybe he’s hysterical, fuck that; maybe he’s going crazy, like, legitimately take-me-to-the-nut-house crazy.

He snorts, a bark of pained, raw laughter, he shakes his head, meeting Sam’s shocked gaze, Sam’s eyes narrow irritably, “Dean, this ain’t funny.”

“What, man? C’mon, it kinda is.”

“What? Dad knowing about us? Or me having dreams about my dead girlfriend? Yeah, completely hilarious,” Sam says darkly.

“Whatever,” Dean sighs, he rubs his hand across his eyes, shucks down his boxers, pulls off his t-shirt until he’s naked.

Sam’s regarding him warily. “What you doing?”

“Might as well use that shower, you’ve had the water on long enough,” he shrugs. He pulls the shower curtain aside and climbs in, steam wrapping around him, hot beads of water lashing against his calves. He raises his eyebrows at Sam. “You joining me?”

Sam blinks at him, then slowly, he shakes his head, his mouth twitching in that slow fond way that makes Dean feel warm, what he thinks of as Sam’s _you’re such a fuckin’ idiot, and I’m way more mature than you, but I love you anyway_ look.

“Yeah, okay,” Sam says.

[Next chapter](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/25451.html)


	17. Chapter 17

Ross eases his eyes open and peers over the covers. Dad is standing over the table, mug in hand, gazing down at all the newspaper articles, photocopies and print-outs he’s gotten together on this thing – this demon – they’re supposed to be hunting. The stuff is covering the entire table, like some enormous collage; in fact, it’s pretty fucking amazing that they’ve even managed to find a motel room with a table big enough to take it all.

Dad frowns, leaning over to shift some pieces of paper around, obviously spotting some sort of pattern there. Dad was always pretty awesome at that, could spot the patterns and connections and secret hidden messages behind shit that just made, like, zero sense to him. If Dad’d been born years earlier, like before WW2, he could totally have been one of those Enigma code-breakers who figured out the Nazi secret codes. They watched this movie about it a couple of weeks ago; shit was kinda boring, though both Sam and Dean had been into it, Sam bleating about how historically inaccurate it all was, and Dean about how awesome Kate Winslet’s rack was.

He watches Dad sneakily; sure that Dad hasn’t figured out yet that he’s awake. But it’s so comforting and familiar to see Dad completely engrossed like this that he doesn’t want it to stop. It’s been so fucking long, and there’s been so much shit gone on since that last time they saw him, a year and a half ago now, (he’s totally not counting those five minutes in Chicago), and it’s like his life has completely changed since then and now, like he’s a different person, so seeing Dad now – seeing how much he hasn’t changed – it’s kinda too much, and if he’s not careful then he’s just gonna start breaking down and sobbing his heart out like a freaking chick.

“Dad?”

Dad turns his head, gives him a faint smile. “You’re awake,” he says. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” he nods.

For once, it’s not a lie, he did sleep well, just knowing that Dad was in the room with him helped him sleep way better than he’s done in fucking months.

Dad nods, turns back to his papers. Ross yawns, throws back the covers and pads over to stand by him.

“Have you figured out the pattern?”

Dad frowns, looks up, dark eyes meeting his. He shakes his head, exhales heavily.

“Maybe. Sonofabitch is good. Knows how to cover its tracks.” He swirls the liquor in his mug, takes a long thoughtful sip. “Don’t mean we ain’t gonna win, though. But this bastard – it’s the toughest thing we’ve ever hunted.”

“Yeah?” Ross looks up, snaps his teeth, grins at him, “Bring it.”

Dad gives him an approving smile and reaches over to tousle his hair, his hand sliding down to squeeze his shoulder. He pauses for a moment, then turns so they’re facing each other, and Ross notices with a stab of surprise that they’re, like, almost the same height, Dad only about half an inch taller than him, it’s kinda freaky.

“Ross, you know you can tell me anything, son. You know, whatever it is, I’m still gonna be your father, you’ll still be my boy. That’s never gonna change. You do know that, don’t you?” This is weird, Dad doesn’t say this sort of shit, Dad just gets on with it, that’s how they roll. “Sammy - last night he had a bad dream. You were asleep, didn’t hear it. I went next door to check on him and found the two of them sharing a bed. Does that happen a lot?”

Fuck! How can they be so fucking stupid? So fucking dumb. Dad just next door and they still can’t help themselves. It’s pathetic, they’re pathetic, can’t keep their hands off each other for one goddamn night…

“Ross, answer the question.”

“I, uh, yeah? I guess,” he stammers. “I mean, Sammy, he, uh, has nightmares a lot, ‘bout his girl, and, like, with the visions and shit –“

“ _Visions_?” Dad interrupts, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Ross stares at him, mouth still wide open, he probably looks like a fucking goldfish, mouth opening and closing, eyelashes fluttering, red stain on his cheeks that he can practically feel getting redder and redder every second, and Jesus, why’d he let that slip? Why’d he mention that?

“What _visions_?” Dad repeats coldly, saying the word like it’s something revolting that he’s about to spit out. “Are you telling me that your brother’s been having visions? Of what?”

Dad doesn’t give him time to answer, just swears under his breath, slams his half-drunk mug of whisky onto the table and stalks out the room.

Ross gapes at the half open door and tries to catch his breath. Well, at least, Dad’s not asking about the sharing a bed thing anymore, though he’s not sure that this is better. He can already hear the sound of raised voices coming from next door – Sam and Dad – of course it would be Sam and Dad. This just gives them another thing to fight about, like there aren’t enough already. He tugs on a pair of Dean’s sweatpants over his boxers, pushing his feet into his boots, not bothering to lace them up before he stumbles out of the room after his father.

They’re into a fully fledged screaming match. Sam’s on his feet, pointing an accusing finger at Dad and yelling at him for not being there, never being there for them. Dean’s stood off to one side, looking between Dad and Sam like he’s watching a fucking tennis game, frowning unhappily. He moves to join him, placing his hand on Dean’s arm, a touch that’s meant to be reassuring but Dean’s skin feels warm, and he’s forgotten that – forgotten how good Dean feels – how his fingertips tingle when they touch Dean’s skin, how the knots in his chest unravel like he’s being sedated with the really good shit… and this is shitty fucking timing, ‘cause it’s so not the time or place to be popping a boner over his big brother. He snatches his hand away from Dean and stuffs it into the pocket of his (well, Dean’s) sweats. Dean doesn’t even notice.

Dad takes a breath, turns his head to take in the two of them, momentarily distracted from his shouting match with Sammy. He stares at Ross, then shakes his head, teeth clenched, that look on his face that’s making something burn up in Ross’s chest, that disappointed, unhappy look – and he’s caused that: him and Sam and their freaky vision shit.

“I can’t believe none of you ever thought to tell me any of this,” Dad says. He’s talking about all of them, but his eyes are on Ross, like they’re boring through the layers of skin and muscle and fat and bone, and straight through to his heart, that look on his face that means, _I’m disappointed in you, son…_ “Something like this happens; you pick up the phone and you call me.”

“Call you? You kidding me? I called you from Lawrence!” Ross flinches in surprise at the sound of Dean's voice. “Sam called you when I was _dying_. Getting you on the phone, I got a better chance of winning the lottery!"

Sam’s eyes widen, his face going all slack-jawed with shock, a tiny, love-struck smile playing at the corner of his mouth as he stares at Dean; if this were a cartoon then his eyes would be bugging out right now with little pink hearts fluttering all around them.

Ross glances at his father, heart in his mouth, body all tensed in anticipation, waiting for Dad’s retaliation, but Dad’s not saying anything. He’s not even looking at Dean or acknowledging what he’s said, his expression’s all blank and hard, a muscle jumping at the corner of his mouth, like every part of his face has clenched up.

“We needed you,” Sam says quietly. “Ross and me – we – these visions, we don’t know what they mean or what they are, and I – we were so scared, and you never answered. You weren’t there, Dad…” he trails off; his eyes are shiny with tears, voice shaky. “You weren’t there,” he repeats uselessly, like Dad needs to hear him say it again.

Dad nods abruptly, then he’s going, leaving, walking out of the room, door slamming shut behind him, and he still hasn’t spoken.

 

 

 

Dad’s not in their room. He’s gone, his truck missing from the parking lot, some of the pages of research leaving big rectangular holes in the collage on the table. Ross takes a shower because he can’t think of anything else to do.

He gets out the shower and sits on the edge of the tub, trailing his toes in the drops of water on the floor. He can’t be bothered to towel himself off just yet, the hot water’s made him feel all lethargic and itchy, he should’ve jacked off in there, done something to take the edge off this already shitty day. He stares into the mirror on the other side of the room; it’s seriously steamed up, like the Impala with all three of them inside on a rainy day, and he can only make out his outline, a human-shaped blur, _like a ghost_ , he thinks with a shiver.

He glances down his body, watching the droplets of water rolling over the muscles of his chest, his hard abs and flat stomach. The last time he remembers looking at himself this closely, there were marks on his skin – hickeys and bruises and bites left by Sarah – but they’ve disappeared now, gone the same way as the hickeys and bruises and bites that Sam and Dean used to leave. It’s been nearly two weeks since he left her behind to her Upstate New York life, a month since he last fooled around with Sam, nearly two since Dean last touched him, and it’s like they were never even there, like nothing ever really happened, like it was all just his fucked-up imagination.

He raises one hand to his neck, presses down at the flesh, purposefully hard enough to hurt, prodding at the bruises that used to be there. He runs his fingers over the sides of his neck, touching his collarbone self-consciously. The flesh feels warm where his fingertips trace, hard ridges and nubs of bone standing out like they’re trying to poke right through his skin. He lets his fingers drift to the back of his neck, the nape; it’s his real sensitive spot, the sweet spot, the one that never fails to turn his crank up to eleven.

He thinks about the last time Dean touched him, how Dean kissed him on that sweet spot, whispering all soft and low: _let it go, kiddo, s’alright, I’m here, we gotcha, littlest bro, you’re with us…_ Dean’s arms wrapped around him, holding him from behind, as they lay together on the big king bed, and that had felt so good, so fucking good, Dean’s fingers cupping his balls, big palm slicking up and down, up and down, Sam watching them like his eyes were greedy for it, like he wanted to record every little detail to think about later.

“Hey!” Dean’s voice yanks him out of the memory, and he flinches, scrambles the towel closer together to hide his growing erection. “Ross? You in here?” Dean pushes the bathroom door open and frowns down at him. “What you doin’?”

“Having a shower, what’s it look like?” He pushes his wet hair out his eyes, turns to look his brother in the face, “What do you want?”

Dean raises a cool-it, cool-it hand. “Just seeing if you wanna join us for breakfast?”

He pulls on some clothes quickly, and goes next door to Dean and Sam’s room. They’re sitting hunched together over the table, stained paper bags of food between them, Dean glances up, grunts and kicks out the spare chair for him, and he takes it, reaching to snag a handful of chili fries. It’s like every other breakfast they’ve had over the past few months, except it really totally isn’t because there’s an enormous Dad-shaped elephant in the room. Sam’s eyes look pink, like he’s been crying, and Dean’s cracking lame unfunny jokes in that obnoxious way he has when he’s trying to make up for something, except it totally doesn’t make up for anything and just makes everything so much worse.

“Dude, shut up,” Ross snaps through a mouthful of breakfast burrito. “You ain’t funny.”

Sam exchanges a look with him, while Dean frowns, looking momentarily hurt. “Just ‘cause you two can’t appreciate real humor.”

“We can appreciate real humor, which is why we don’t think you’re funny,” cuts in Sam.

Ross blinks, surprised by the vicious edge to Sam’s voice, Dean looks shocked too because his mouth is working in that way that means he doesn’t know how to take it, how to react next.

“You know what: fuck you!” Dean snaps, getting up from the table with a jerk. “Fuck you both!”

He stomps out of the room, snatching up the pack of cigarettes lying on the table on his way out and slamming the door behind him, like they haven’t gotten the message that he’s pissed already.

For a moment, there’s this lingering deathly silence, the crappy door shaking in its equally crappy frame.

“Oops,” Ross says.

Sam’s mouth quirks like he’s trying to hold back an awkward laugh. “I think we upset him.”

“He’ll get over it.”

Ross goes to the window, peers out through the smears and smudges and dirt. Dean’s pacing around the parking lot, empty except for the Impala and one old beat-up brown pick-up truck which must belong to the manager, Dean’s smoking violently and he looks seriously pissed. He looks up, glances back towards the room, and glares. Ross ducks his head away, though he’s pretty sure Dean didn’t actually see him, the window’s way too dirty for that.

“What’s he doing?” asks Sam.

He glances over his shoulder at his brother; Sam’s gotten to his feet, clearing up their shit, balling up the used napkins and paper bags, throwing them into the trash.

“Sulking,” says Ross with a shrug. “You should go out there, man, say sorry, do all your pansy-ass makin’ up shit.”

“Maybe later.”

He throws himself onto one of the beds, watches Sam climb onto the other and pull the laptop onto his knees. Both of the beds look mussed up and he wonders if they did that after Dad caught them, if they slept separately or if they slept together and messed it up purposefully, it seems kinda pointless now.

“I can’t believe you two were fuckin’ around last night. You totally deserved to have Dad catch you,” he says.

Sam looks up from the screen, there’s a wry sort of smile playing over his mouth that reminds Ross with a wrench of Dean, that’s totally a Dean expression. “Dude, c’mon, it’s not like we haven’t done it before. We spent years fuckin’ around with you and Dad on the other side of the wall. And we’re not gonna stop just ‘cause Dad’s back. I’m not letting that happen.”

He’s saying it all so matter-of-factly, like it’s just a part of life, like it’s something that Ross should just accept and deal with and get the fuck over. And in a way, mostly, he kinda has accepted and dealt with it and gotten over it. After all, he knew for years what was going on between his brothers every night after the four of them said goodnight and trundled off to bed. He used to lay in his own bed, while Dad stayed up reading or researching or writing in his journal, ever present tumbler of whisky by his elbow, and he used to think about his brothers, his brain torturing him with thoughts of what they were doing on the other side of that wall, all the disgusting shit they might be getting up to.

“What you lookin’ for?” he asks after a few minutes of Sam clicking and tapping and sighing over the laptop.

Sam huffs out this long drawn-out pissy breath that’s just Sammy’s way of being super passive-aggressive. Seriously, one day, they’re gonna find this massive freaking ulcer in Sam’s stomach from all the passive-aggressive, huffy-puffy shit he’s always playing at, and it will totally be his own fault, like really lame karma.

“I’m not looking for anything, just surfing, whatever.”

“Porn?”

“No, not porn.” He pulls a face, like Ross has just said something disgusting, like he never looks at or watches porn, and Ross fucking knows that ain’t the case.

“Liar.”

Sam smiles smugly and says, “You forget that I don’t need to watch porn, Littlest Bro, I get it for free all the time,” like he’s the superior one around here just because he’d rather fuck his brother than watch porn, like incest is the moral high-ground.

“Fuck you,” he snorts. He narrows his eyes on Sam as Sam smirks to himself again and goes back to reading whatever non-pornographic shit he’s reading. “You know, when you were with your girl did you think about Dean?”

“What?” Sam’s head snaps up in surprise.

“I was just wondering: you know – you and Dean – if you’re so fuckin’ meant to be and all that shit, then why’d you, like, even hook up with someone else?”

Sam’s expression goes hard, that dangerous look in his eyes that’s exactly the same as the one on Dad’s face this morning. “I don’t wanna talk about that,” Sam says stiffly.

“Fine, whatever, but it’s a serious fucking question, dude. You’re all, like, it’s me and Dean forever and all that shit now, but couple of years back you were off at college, not givin’ a shit about us – your family – acting like we never even fuckin’ existed, like Dean never existed!”

“It wasn’t like that,” Sam protests. “I never – I never forgot about Dean or Dad or you, I thought about you all the time.”

“Aha, so you did think about Dean when you were with your girl!”

There’s a long moment of silence while Ross watches Sam, eyes locked on the curve of his neck, his bent head, his wild crazy hair falling across his face and hiding his expression. He feels a lurch of regret, a knot of guilt in his gut. Shit, he didn’t want to break Sam again, that so wasn’t the point of all this, this was supposed to…

Fuck, he’s not sure, maybe he did want to upset Sam, after all Sam has everything: he had his own life away from them with a cute girlfriend and friends and an apartment and school and all that kinda shit that Ross knows that he never wanted for himself, and yet… he ain’t sure anymore, getting away from this, from his family, maybe he does want this, like Sam used to do, maybe he’s always been secretly jealous of Sam for that. And okay, so it all ended horribly for Sam, but at least Sam did get that, had that taste of something else. He’s never gonna have that, Dad’s never gonna let him have that, and even if Dad does let him, then he doesn’t know what he’d do about it, where to even start, how to live without his family (without Dean).

And yeah… that’s it too, Sam not only had that, but he also had Dean, he has Dean, right fucking now. Dean is all Sam’s, he gets all of Dean all to himself, and that’s the way it’s gonna be for however long the rest of their lives are.

When Sam finally raises his head, his eyes look shiny, like he’s trying not to cry. He fixes a look on Ross: “Why are you asking me this?” he says quietly.

Ross swallows over the lump in the back of his throat. “I dunno, but – I wanna know, tell me the truth.”

“Okay.” Sam takes a breath and he looks awful, his face all squeezed and scrunched up. “I never forgot about you, or about Dean. I thought about you every single fucking day. I thought about Dean all the time, I thought about Dean when… uh, even with Jess – sometimes when we were –“ he breaks off, presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, “I thought about Dean when I used to fuck her, okay? That what you wanna know?” He drops his hands to his lap, and Ross can see the tears for real now, streaking down Sam’s face. “God, I wish so much, so fuckin’ much that I’d never met her, she’d still be alive if it weren’t for me –“

“You don’t know that,” he says automatically.

“Of course I fuckin’ know that!” Sam snarls. “She would still be alive if it weren’t for me! And I never – I was the one who got her killed – and I never deserved her! I didn’t love her like she loved me! I should never have been with her in the first place!”

“Sammy –“

He’s off the bed and crossing the few feet between them before he realizes what he’s doing, before his brain has time to tell him that this is a really fucking stupid idea. He reaches for Sam, fingers brushing against Sam’s shirt, and then Sam’s fist flies out and he’s crumpling to the floor, fucking taken out by Sammy, and man, that is fucking that! He doesn’t give a shit that Sam’s upset or hurt or that it might be his own damn fault for upsetting Sam, for bringing up the taboo subject of Jessica, but Sam’s his brother, Sam’s Sam, and he’s not letting Sam get the better of him in a fight. He kicks out his legs, catching and tripping Sam, and sending him tumbling to the floor beside him, and then they’re on each other for real, wrestling just like they’re kids again.

It’s all so familiar, rolling around on the floor with Sam, trying to jam his knees into Sam’s belly and trying to pry Sam’s freakishly long arms off him, so familiar that it’s also weirdly comforting. This is how he and Sam work after all, this is how they roll. He should’ve, like, totally realized that when he made his stupid and pretty fucking pointless attempt to comfort Sam just then. Dean is the one who takes care of that kinda shit: Dean’s the one who pulls them into hugs and strokes their hair and tells them everything’s going to be okay. He and Sammy… well, they fight and they bitch and they squabble and they bicker and they call each other names and they get into dumb wrestling matches where they end up on the floor trying to pull each other’s hair, or, in more recent times, trying to get each other off… And _shit_ , he could, like, really do without those particular sense memories right now ‘cause having Sam’s body so close, wrapped all around him, is starting to fuck with his dick, make him hard, and Sam’s totally gonna notice any minute now -

_“Sam! Ross! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”_

It takes Ross a long, long second to register his father’s voice, and by then Sam’s already reacting, climbing off of him and pushing his hair out his eyes, looking sheepish under Dad’s furious glare.

“Where’s your brother?” barks Dad.

Ross gets to his feet, hearing Sam answer: “He went out.”

Dad makes an irritated sound in the back of his throat, and strides towards the table, and dumps a load of papers onto it.

“And the reason you two were fighting?”

“S’nothing,” Sam says, “just a stupid fight. We’re already over it. Right, Ross?” His eyes meet Ross’s for a moment, and Ross nods agreement quickly, “Right, uh, yeah. Sorry.”

“Good. I don’t want to see you fighting again. We go up against this thing together, or we don’t go at all. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” they answer in unison.

“Ross, go find your brother, get him back here now. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

 

 

****************************************

 

 

They’ve been sitting in the car for over two hours, watching the house through the windshield while trying their best not to look too conspicuous and out of place in their classic muscle car on this quiet suburban street. They’ve had a couple of strange looks from passersby, but the people in this neighborhood are evidently very trusting as no one has been out yet to ask them what the hell they’re doing there.

He raises his hand to his face to smother a yawn and rubs his eyes tiredly. He’s still feeling the after-effects of the vision from this morning, light thump-thump of pain throbbing against the back of his eyes, stifled by the handfuls of drugs he’s swallowed, but not completely vanished. It happened only minutes after Dad got back, both him and Ross falling to the floor and clutching their foreheads like they were suffering a nerve gas attack in a 70’s sci-fi miniseries. Dad had stood by and watched in amazement, the expression of horror and disbelief on his face afterwards while the two of them tried to explain what they’d seen telling Sam exactly how Dad really felt about their new-found psychic powers.

He darts a glance at his brother, Ross is staring listlessly out the window, eyes locked on the upper floor of the house, the nursery.

“Hey, how’re you feeling?” he asks.

Ross turns to look at him, gives a little shrug, “Peachy.”

“No, I mean, with the vision. This one doesn’t seem to have hit you as badly as before.”

Ross frowns as if he’s considering the question. “Yeah, no, I guess? Don’t ask me why, though, man, ‘cause seriously, I have zero fuckin’ clue.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighs in agreement.

He’s just as lost as Ross, he has no idea why, but this vision _was_ different. Physically, the after-effects felt just the same, though Ross seems to be doing a helluva lot better than on previous occasions, thank God. Okay, so he’s still suffering from the same bitch of a headache and it’s still refusing to completely go away, but in all other ways, this time was different. It felt a lot more vivid, more real than all of his previous visions, as if he was really and truly in the moment, a part of the action, not just the silent, pointless observer. He could sense that evil sonofabitch this time, feel it, smell it, its scent and voice clogging up his brain like hair in a drain, and he was powerless, unable to do anything to stop it.

But they’re going to stop it now. They have the Colt, and the power is in their hands, literally in their hands, and it’s not going down like in their vision. Like Dad said, they’re going to end it all, tonight.

“Sam…”

Ross’s voice pries him out of his thoughts; he turns his head, catching his brother’s eye. Ross blinks, looking sheepish for a moment, before he opens his mouth again.

“Uh, I – I’m sorry ‘bout bringing up your girl before. I shouldn’t’ve mentioned that, so, uh, I’m real sorry for that, man.”

Sam’s eyes widen in surprise. He’s half expecting this to be some sort of joke, but he can see by the look on Ross’s face that it isn’t. He looks nervous, all the usual Ross bravado and bullshit swept away for a split second. Sam’s had years of practice figuring out when his little brother is lying and when he’s telling the truth, and this is Ross being completely sincere.

“Ross, it’s okay, seriously, don’t sweat it,” he answers haltingly. “I shouldn’t have reacted like I did.”

He’s feeling stupidly affected by Ross’s little apology, by the genuine remorse in his brother’s eyes. Sometimes it feels like he and Ross have been trying to build bridges and find common ground their entire lives. Of course they do have a lot of common ground; they’ve always shared a lot of common ground: Dean and hunting are the obvious examples, though those two things have hardly had a positive effect on their relationship, exacerbating already present resentments and hostilities rather than bringing them together. But things are different now. Maybe he and Ross _can_ find common ground at long last.

“Anyway, I should’ve dealt with all that before now – Jess’s, uh, her death,” he sighs. “I haven’t – I haven’t let myself think about it, and well, I know that ain’t healthy.”

“Since when have we ever done what’s healthy?” says Ross with a snort.

They go quiet for a moment, he watches Ross crank down the window on the passenger side, snap open the glove compartment and retrieve the battered pack of cigarettes that’s supposed to live there for emergencies but never seems to last for longer than a week.

“Hey…” he starts to say.

“Sam, dude, _c’mon_ ,” Ross interrupts, but Sam cuts off the bitching with a wave of his hand: “Shut up, I wasn’t gonna say anything. Actually, I wanted you to pass me one.”

Ross’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead in a ridiculous way that kinda makes him want to laugh, but he tosses him one of the cigarettes and the lighter, Sam picks it up and frowns: “This looks just like Dean’s lighter. The one he lost a coupla weeks ago, the one he spent three hours solid bitching about.”

Ross exhales a long stream of smoke with a smirk. “Oh yeah, so it does. Whatever. It’s a cool lighter. And what Deano don’t know, won’t hurt him.”

“Right,” he answers, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

He lights up with a quick snap of his fingers, inhaling greedily. It’s still unfamiliar enough to give him a head-rush, but it’s not unwelcome, in fact, it’s kinda invigorating, and hell, it’s not like he’s never smoked before. The three of them have smoked pot together regularly over the years, and at college he used to be a bit of a social smoker, he’d taken it up as a way to meet people, ingratiate himself with them, prove that he was one of the cool crowd. His roommate freshman year, Jimmy, had been just as hooked as Dean, though, naturally, he’d ticked “non-smoker” on the application form because he didn’t want his folks to know. But Jimmy came from one of those Midwestern backward towns that were far too familiar to the Winchesters, and in those kinda towns, all the cool kids were smokers, even the ones bound for Stanford.

“Way I figure it, you two are gonna kill me with your secondhand smoke anyway, so I may as well get the benefits.”

“Whatever,” Ross says breezily, “just kinda funny, man. After all the shit you’ve given us ‘bout how freakin’ bad smoking is for your health, how it’s gonna give us lung cancer and heart disease, blah, blah, fuckin’ blah, now you’re one of us.”

Sam ignores him and rolls down his window, letting his elbow rest on the cool metal, cigarette smoke curling up and out into the dark grey sky.

“I know I didn’t really, like, know her, ‘cause I only met her that one time, but she seemed really cool, you know? Like, way too fuckin’ good for a geek like you. And, dude, so hot.”

It takes him a few seconds to register that Ross is talking about Jess again, and for a brief moment, he feels the muscles in his chest clench up – and yeah, maybe it’s the goddamn cigarette, but it’s not likely. He forces himself to exhale, take a calming drag, feeling the tears start to blur his vision.

“Yeah, yeah she was. Way too good for me.”

“Wow, we finally agreed on something,” says Ross.

He huffs out a laugh, brittle but genuine, and exchanges a look with his brother, Ross cocking a rueful smile at him in a way that’s eerily similar to Dean.

“Ross, everything that went on before with you and me and Dean, I just want you to know, man, that I don’t regret it, any of it,” he says seriously.

“Jesus, is this, like, freakin’ confession time?”

“C’mon, you were the one who started it,” he answers, turning to toss his finished cigarette out the window. He feels a nibble of guilt for that, this is a nice neighborhood after all, but Dean goes fucking crazy if he finds butts in the car, so there’s really nothing else to do with it.

“Fuck, kill me now,” Ross groans.

“Shut up. Listen, tonight - things might – well, this is it. We might not have another chance to say this sort of shit to each other, so, I figure –“ he breaks off, shrugs awkwardly. “Get it out there. Say what you feel, what you mean.”

“I always say what I mean.”

Sam hesitates for a second, before he answers, “Yeah, yeah, I guess you do.”

It’s true. There’s no hidden agenda with Ross, he always says what he thinks, stands up for what he believes in, goes after what he wants. Ross is pretty single-minded that way – like himself. It’s unexpected, like a sudden realization, but in many ways he and Ross are way more alike than he and Dean could ever be. Dean’s the one who doesn’t go after what he wants; he represses his own personal desires, for the good of the family, for the mission, for Dad, for his younger brothers, always putting them first, always giving into their wishes and desires and spreading himself so damn thin all the time, while he and Ross… they just take and take, way too used to getting their own way with their big brother. It’s taken him 17 years to realize it, but maybe he and Ross are just as alike on the inside as they are on the outside.

A wave of affection for his younger brother hits him, and he turns to look at him, mouth crooking up into a fond smile.

“What now?” Ross asks warily.

“Nothing. Just – I wanna thank you.”

“Dude, for what?”

“For everything. For not letting me wallow, for helping me get over Jessica, for just – for being there, and well, being your usual annoying self, not letting me get away with shit.”

“Fuck, Sammy, like I’d ever let you get away with anything. Anyway, it’s Dean you wanna thank, not me. He’s the one who’s, like, wiped away your manly tears and given you comforting blowjobs and let you fuck him up the ass, I ain’t done none of that shit.”

“Shut up, Dean already knows how grateful I am to him.”

“I bet he fuckin’ does,” scoffs Ross.

Sam rolls his eyes and leans over to squeeze Ross’s arm, feeling the fond smile tugging at his mouth as he meets his brother’s eyes.

“Christ’s sake, dude, what is with you tonight? You’re actin’ really fuckin’ weird, even for you!” Ross sounds exasperated, the look in his eyes a mixture of confused and suspicious.

“Like I said, this could be it. You and me, littlest bro, this could be the last chance we have to say anything to each other!”

There’s a long pause, then Ross speaks, stumbling over the words: “Do you think it will ever be over? Like, huntin’, what we do?”

“Honestly?”

Ross nods, “Yeah?”

“No,” he says with a shrug. “If we ice this sonofabitch tonight, and I’m gonna do everything I can to make sure that we do, then it won’t be the end of it. There’ll still be evil shit out there for us to kill.”

“Right, yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Ross says. “So, uh, is that what you’ll do? You’ll keep huntin’? After you got the bastard that got your girl and your mom? You won’t, like, wanna go back to school?”

Sam hesitates for a second before he answers, and when he does he feels the truth in the words: “No, I’m not going back to school. That part of my life is over now. I want,” he pauses, licks his lips, a smile starting to spread over his face, “I want Dean. I’ve always wanted Dean, I used to want the two of us to go off somewhere together, ride off into the sunset and just be together. And maybe I’d go to college and he’d get a job, or we’d both go to college, and just be normal. As normal as we could ever be ‘cause, dude, I know, _brothers_. But, I guess at some point I changed my mind, and now,” he breaks off for a moment, gives a shrug, “I kinda want us to stick together – the three of us. We’re the only people who really get each other, you know, even when – even with Jess, I was… God, I used to lie to her all the time, I never told her anything about huntin’, ‘bout you guys.”

He swallows over the huge lump in his throat, thinking back, remembering Jess, forcing himself to remember because he’s been forgetting about her for so long now, banishing her memory to the back of his mind so often that it’s in danger of completely disappearing, rubbed away forever.

He was going to marry her. He can remember that now and it seems so alien to him, the idea of him – Sam Winchester – being married to a girl like Jess. But he was set on that idea, even researched the price of wedding rings, possible venues, freaking tax breaks for married couples. He was as single-minded about that idea as he’d been about going to Stanford, about getting away from Dad, about having Dean to himself.

Truthfully, he knows now that he’d never have been able to go through with it, not even he can take cognitive dissonance that far, can fool himself enough to believe that he deserved to be married to someone like Jess, that he could even live that life, pretend for that long, give up Dean, his entire family for the rest of his life. And if he had married Jess, then what? Would he have invited his brothers and his father to the wedding? It would’ve been wrong to exclude them, Jess would’ve insisted on them being there, she was that kind of girl. So would he have even gone through with it? Said I do and till death us do part and forsaking all others to Jess while Dean looked on?

“Sam, it ain’t like you coulda really told her anything, man. What were you supposed to do – tell her the truth about huntin’? Bad fuckin’ idea,” says Ross.

Sam looks up, Ross’s eyes are soft, sympathetic even, he’s genuinely trying to make him feel better. It’s endearing, and before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s leaning forward, hand going up to cup his brother’s cheek, bring their mouths together.

Ross responds just as eagerly as Sam remembers, taking charge of the kiss with a hungry moan, grabbing onto Sam’s face with his rough palms, his tongue pushing into Sam’s mouth. He’s not sure how long they’re making out before he feels Ross pulling away from him, panting as he catches his breath, soft puff-puff of air against Sam’s cheek. His hands are still cupping Ross’s face, thumbs brushing lightly over his high cheekbones, fingers in his hair.

“Hey,” he whispers, feeling Ross tense up. “It’s okay. For us to do that.”

“Sure it is,” Ross snorts, but it’s half-hearted and his voice sounds a little ragged, shaky. “’Cept I thought that shit was finished. Thought you weren’t interested anymore.” He pulls away, turning his head so Sam can only see his profile, his ear covered by his slightly longer hair, the stubble on his jaw. He watches Ross blink, long feathery lashes swooping up and down.

“Dude, it’s not that, it’s just. Fuck, I don’t know, but you and me – it’s cool; we’re cool, aren’t we? And if we want to fool around, then that’s cool, ain’t it?”

“I guess,” Ross says eventually. “I guess it don’t have to have some big fuckin’ meaning to it.” He sighs and turns back to Sam, smirk edging at the corner of his mouth. “So feel free to blow me whenever the mood takes you. Promise I won’t say no.”

Sam laughs out loud, “Jesus, you’re such a little punk.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a bitch, Sammy.”

He rolls his eyes, but they’re both trying not to smile too widely. They go back to staring out the windshield, watching the house, and shit, he shouldn’t have gotten himself so distracted. The house – the nursery – that’s what matters right now, this is their big opportunity for vengeance. He and Ross, they’re the ones with the big job tonight, the actual fucking kill-shot while Dad and Dean are just providing the diversion.

“Hey,” Ross says quietly, breaking into the silence. “Did you, uh, before, when Dad and Dean left – did you feel anything, like, something weird, psychic weird?”

“Why? What do you mean? Did you sense something?” A buzz of fear prickles at the nape of his neck and he swallows, staring into Ross’s eyes: “Ross, please, this could be really fucking important, man, if you had a vision –“

“Not a fuckin’ vision. Wasn’t like that.”

“What was it then?”

“Just. A feeling. Fuck, Sam, I don’t know. Might just be over-reactin’.”

He can feel the hairs on his nape really starting to rise now, his fingers clenching into fists, the muscles in his stomach starting to churn. He bites back the wave of sudden overwhelming fear and shakes his head decidedly.

“No, no, you’re not overreacting. Not now, not with this kinda timing. But you gotta tell me exactly what you felt, like, _exactly_.”

Ross gulps, but he nods, starts to speak: “It was when I was sayin’ bye to Dean, he, uh, he just pulled me into a hug, and I just got this –“ Ross shivers, and that’s it, he knows now, can really see it in Ross’s eyes, feel it in his bones, wherever, whatever this psychic connection between them is – he can feel it, Ross’s fear. “Like this feeling. Like, uh, it might be the last time we did that.”

Sam blinks, and it feels like he’s been punched, like the air from lungs has evaporated, and he can almost picture the color seeping from his face. “You think, uh, you think something might get Dean? That he won’t be okay?” he stammers.

“Fuck, man, I don’t fuckin’ know. It was just some feeling! I’m just, like. C’mon Sammy, he’s with _Dad_. It’ll be fine. It wasn’t anything, like, solid, dude, it was just a damn feeling. Jesus, wish I hadn’t fuckin’ said anything now.”

“A feeling from a psychic, Ross. You’ve been right about this sort of shit before. We both have.”

“Christ’s sake, I’m not a fuckin’ psychic!”

“Ross –“

“- Sam. C’mon – this is – you’re overreacting, man. Did you feel anything this time? When we said bye?”

He tries to think, get his mind out of panic mode and into normal rational thinking mode. He didn’t feel anything while they were saying goodbye, not anything like Ross is describing. Dean pulled him aside and into a tight hug, whispering: _“Sammy, you listen to me, don’t you fuckin’ dare go doin’ any stupid-ass heroics. You make sure you got each other’s backs, there’s way more important shit at stake than just blowin’ this bitch’s head off. I’m countin’ on you both coming back. That’s all that matters to me. You hear me, Sammy? Please, just make sure you come back to me.”_ He looked Dean in the eye, gaze burning and intense, and he promised: _”I will. You and me, Dean.”_

He didn’t feel anything, just an overwhelming surge of love, of completeness, of never wanting to let go of his big brother ever again. But feelings of foreboding… impending doom… No, nothing like that.

“I don’t know,” he says at last. “I don’t think so.”

Ross looks relieved and he manages a weak smile, “Well then. It’s always been both of us in the past. Yesterday, that was both of us – seeing this baby – that was both of us. They’ll be okay, he and Dad, they’ll be okay. Right, man?”

“Right,” he answers. Then more forcefully, catching Ross’s eye: “Right.”

 

****************************

 

They’ve been on the road for three hours, Dad playing the radio low and drumming his fingers against the wheel. Dean’s tensed up, on edge, unable to stop his mind flashing to his brothers, to the two of them going up against the demon, alone. Sure, Sam and Ross have pulled some pretty impressive shit together over the past year and a half, but he’s still not happy knowing that they’re actually gonna be confronting this thing without him or Dad there to back them up. In his mind, they’re still his little brothers, hell, they’ll always be his little brothers, and this is worse than every occasion he watched the two of them head off to a new school on their own, worse than the first time they all went out on a hunt together, the first time they went out on dates, the first time either of them picked up a gun...

Still, after he offered to back up Dad in his plan to trick Meg with the false Colt, and Dad accepted, there was never going to be any other way, it had to be Sam and Ross on their own.

“We can do it, Dad,” Sam had insisted, his eyes shining in that fervent, almost feverish way of his. Of course this was everything to Sam: the opportunity to get revenge on the thing that killed his beloved girlfriend. “We’ve hunted loads of things on our own, me and Ross, we can do this.”

“Yeah,” Ross had added seriously, “yeah, you can count on us, sir.”

So Dad had agreed to it. Dean’s never second-guessed his Dad before, and he’s sure as hell not gonna start doing it now, not when they’re so close, but that don’t mean he likes the idea of Sam and Ross taking on this evil sonofabitch alone any better.

Dad moves his hand to twist the radio dial to mute, and Dean jumps, the sudden movement jolting him out of his thoughts.

“When this is all over, I want you to go stay with Bobby Singer, he’s got a job for you,” Dad says.

“Huh? Bobby Singer? I thought you guys were –“

“We’re back on speaking terms,” Dad interrupts. “He’s been helping me track this bastard. No one knows more about demons than Bobby.”

“Oh, right,” Dean nods, “okay then. And you think that he might have a job for us?”

“Not for us. For you. Just you, Dean.”

For a moment, his brain doesn’t take in what Dad’s saying, the meaning behind his words.

“Come again?”

Dad clears his throat; still not turning to look at him, eyes locked on the road unfolding before them. When he speaks again his voice is fainter, almost ragged. “When this hunt is over. Afterwards. You take the Impala and you drive to Bobby Singer’s and you help him out with this job. No matter how long it takes.”

“Dad? You, uh, you sayin’ that you want me to leave? Is that it?”

“That’s exactly what I want you to do. Dean, I need for you to do this. Don’t fight with me.”

“But Dad, I –“

“Don’t play dumb with me, boy!” Dad snarls. Dean flinches, body tensed for flight, every instinct telling him to get the hell out of there, but the needle’s pushing a hundred and Dad’s foot is welded to the gas, and he’s not going anywhere, neither of them is going anywhere, and Dad’s started speaking again, his voice cracked and hoarse.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about. What you and your brother,” he breaks off for a second like he has to catch his breath, a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “What the two of you do together, I can’t have it in my family. I can’t have sons that do – that do _that_ – anywhere near me. It goes against everything I stand for, everything we stand for as a family, and I refuse to condone it. I trusted you to look after your brothers, to do your best for them, and yet… you and Sam. I can’t allow it to continue, not anymore. I mean what I say, Dean. When this is over, I want you gone. You have to leave.”

He sounds defeated, he’s only ever sounded like that once before: the day Sam left, the day Sam told them about Stanford, the day Dean drove Sam to the bus station. And Dean can’t answer him, he can’t speak, barely aware of the tears rolling down his cheeks, mouth dried up and voice evaporated, and besides, even if he could put words together, what’s he gonna say? He can’t defend himself from this. It’s true. It’s all true.

“Dean, do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I – Dad. But what about Sam? He won’t – he won’t agree to it. If you say I have to leave then he’ll try to come with me. I know he will.”

For a second, Dad doesn’t answer, just a hitch in his breathing that’s like a stab wound to Dean’s chest, a tightening around his heart.

“Then it’s up to you to convince him not to. Dean, son, listen to me: you think you love him, you think this is what he wants, but the two of you are sick. You’re damaged. And I – as your father – I have to bear some of that responsibility.” His voice drains away, and Dean risks a glance up, trying to catch his father’s profile through his blurred vision. Dad looks devastated, wrung-out and sick, and it’s him – him and Sam – that have caused it, that have broken Dad, ‘cause Dad’s right; the two of them are sick, they are damaged. He’s damaged, and along the way, he’s damaged Sammy too, fucked him up for good, and Ross –

God, no, he can’t think about that, can’t think about Ross too.

“Sam could have a normal life again,” Dad says after a moment. “He could go back to school, find another girlfriend; he could have all that, he could be happy.”

_He could be happy…_

He was the one who dragged Sam away from his normal happy life. Would Jess still have died if he hadn’t shown up? It was a pretty fucking big coincidence that she died on the same night they got back to Stanford. If this was a hunt, then the evidence would be compelling. Sam could go back to that, have that normal life he’s always wanted so much. It was his own selfish desires that had fucked it up for Sam, the best thing he could do is to let Sam go.

Dad’s right. He should leave; he can’t be trusted to be around either of his brothers anymore.

“What about Ross?” he whispers.

“Ross will stay with me,” Dad says, his voice gaining strength. “And if Sammy doesn’t want to go back to school, then he will stay with us too. That will be his decision to make. But I want them with me; I know I haven’t always been there for them, for all you boys, but I can do this right. I can be their father again.”

Dean feels his stomach turn over, chest pull and tug and clench, like his heart is trying to escape, trying to climb out of his body, because he doesn’t know if he can take this – be without Sam, without Ross. What is the point of his pathetic sorry life without his family?

But Dad’s right. He _is_ right. This has to be done. For Sam, for Ross. He has to get away from them. The things the three of them have done together -

He has to leave. For their own good. For them, he’d do anything for them, his little brothers. And they’ll be good, with Dad. The three of them can be a proper family again, like Ross has always wanted.

When he speaks again, his voice is stronger, more sure, “Okay, yes. I’ll go.”

Dad exhales, a long, cracked breath. “Good, that’s – that’s good, Dean. You gotta know – it won’t be forever. Despite everything you’ve done, you’re still my boy. You’re still a part of this family, I just – I can’t have you around anymore. For now, at least.”

He goes silent, hand reaching to turn the music back up, fill up the devastating silence. Dean turns his head, stares out the window, his own ghostly reflection staring back at him. He closes his eyes and silently counts off the minutes, pushing all other thoughts from his head, after all they’re gonna be at the rendezvous point soon, and they have a job to do.

[Next Chapter](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/26057.html#cutid1)


	18. Chapter 18

_“You’re going the wrong fuckin’ way!”_

“ _No_ , I am not going the wrong fucking way!”

“ _Yeah_ , you are! Fuck’s sake, just – look!” Ross slams his palm down on the road atlas spread across his lap. “ _This_ – this red fuckin’ line – this is the road north. You just took the wrong fuckin’ turning! I told you left, _left_ , Sam! Make a U-turn! Like, now!”

“No!” snaps Sam. “No, we aren't going that way. Listen to me, Ross: running after them is what Meg wants us to do, she’ll have set a trap for us just like she set one for Dean and Dad. If we wanna get them back we gotta be smart about this.”

He grits his teeth, clenching his fingers around the edges of the worn torn pages. “So, where the fuck are we goin’ then?”

“Bobby Singer’s place.”

“Huh? What? But he and Dad -”

“- You remember his place?” Sam interrupts. “It’s fuckin’ demon-proof; he’s got enough traps and sigils to capture any and all demons after us. We go there, Meg comes after us and we trap her. Then we force her to tell us where she’s got Dean and Dad.”

He licks his lips, considering Sam’s words, trying to think this through like a normal, rational person, but there’s a part of his stupid brain that’s totally not cooperating, just hammering away against his skull like a freaking mantra: SAVE DEAN, SAVE DAD, GOT TO SAVE DEAN, SAVE DAD. DEMON’S GOT DEAN AND DAD. GOT TO SAVE DEAN, GOT TO SAVE DAD. He glances at Sam for back-up, but Sam’s totally focused on the road ahead, his foot jammed solidly to the gas, needle hovering around 90mph mark, teeth clenched and eyes narrowed, that muscle jumping at his jaw. Fuck it, he has no idea what to do, Sam’s demonic girlfriend has got Dad and Dean, and Dad and Dean are awesome hunters, no one’s better than Dad and Dean. Dad and Dean have pulled him out of so many tight corners, saved his life so many times… and now he and Sammy are supposed to save them? Fuck, where do they even start?

He jumps as one of Sam’s massive hand lands on his thigh, giving it a hard, tight squeeze, sending a bolt of heat flooding through his bloodstream, blending with the panic. Sam snaps his head around, dark, glittering eyes meeting Ross’s for a half-second before they’re back on the road, but it’s long enough for Ross to register that look in his brother’s eyes - that same deranged, desperate look as when they thought Dean was dying back in Nebraska – there’s no fucking way anyone can argue with Sam when he’s like this, even him.

“Ross, listen to me, we gotta play this smart, gotta play it right,” Sam insists forcefully. “If we agree to just meet with her, she’ll kill us before we get chance to find out where she’s got Dean. She’ll kill us and she’ll get the Colt and all this – all this shit – will have been for nothing, we’ll all be dead.”

He swallows, nods hopelessly, the fight suddenly drained from him, ‘cause Sammy’s right, he’s completely right. Sam gives a tight sort of ultra-focused nod of his head and squeezes Ross’s thigh again, fingers digging into the hard muscle. “Right, so, we have to _force_ that bitch to tell us the truth. We trap her at Bobby’s; we force her to tell us where she’s got Dean and Dad. You’re with me on this, Ross? You got to be with me on this. It’s me and you, littlest bro, and we gotta save them, we gotta save Dean, just like all the times he’s saved us.”

“Yeah,” he says finally, “yeah, okay.”

Sam nods again, and removes his hand from Ross’s thigh, placing it back on the wheel. Ross bites his lip and stares out the window. This is the right thing to do, they’re not running away, they’re regrouping, playing it smart. This is what Dad would do.

They pull up in Bobby Singer’s yard just after 5 am. The sun’s still down, not set to rise for at least another thirty minutes, and it’s cold, really fucking cold. They climb out of the car, and Ross jumps up and down on the spot, trying to unstiffen his limbs, work some feeling into his tense, cramped muscles; he feels jittery, his gut hitching and rolling with nerves as he follows Sam through the yard.

Bobby’s standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching them with a look on his face that makes Ross feel ten years old again, Bobby's eyes running over them and taking in every detail, their rumpled clothes and pale faces and sleep-deprived eyes, and seriously, ten years old.

“Sam, Ross,” he says finally. “It’s good to see you boys.”

“You too,” says Sam, and his voice sounds shaky, like he’s just as jittery as Ross feels, though he’s definitely doing a way better job of hiding it.

“So, just you two today? Where’s Dean? Last I heard, you three boys were huntin’ together.”

Ross hesitates, glances at Sam, Sam looks stricken for a fraction of a second before it’s buried back down again and he’s in control, nodding tightly and saying, “Yeah, well, that’s why we’re here, we need your help, Bobby. The demon’s got Dean, and Dad too.”

Bobby doesn’t hesitate, just holds the door open for them, “Well then, get your asses inside already.”

Bobby’s place looks exactly the same as it did the last time Ross was here which was nearly four fucking years ago now, the time Bobby and Dad had that knockdown, drag-out fight that ended with Bobby pulling out his shotgun and screaming _get the hell offa my property, John Winchester!_ The place doesn’t look like it’s been cleaned at all since then; it looks like those houses you get on reality TV shows about people with dirty-ass houses, like it could do with a good fumigation and several visits to the Goodwill to get rid of all the clutter on every freaking surface.

“Here,” says Bobby, picking up and thrusting an enormous, ancient book into Sam’s hands. “This should help.”

Sam nods enthusiastically, sparing Bobby one of his _Oooh! Books!_ smiles as he takes a seat at the desk and throws the book open.

“And you,” Bobby says, pinning Ross in place with a cool, taking-no-shit stare, “how about you tell me exactly what happened?”

“So, John Winchester got himself taken in by the demon,” Bobby says after Ross finishes up a garbled, pretty fucking incoherent account of the previous night – of him and Sam trying to kill the demon with the Colt, of Dad and Dean trying to trick Meg with the fake – all of it, down to the moment Meg called Sam with Dad’s phone to tell him that she had Dad and Dean and would be coming for them next.

“It was a trap!” he protests, blood surging angrily at the dismissive tone in Bobby’s voice. “He knew it was a trap, he was just distracting them – to give me and Sammy a chance at the demon.” He looks over at Sam for back up; but Sam’s ignoring them both, too busy leafing through the big-ass demon book, his face shifting into that super-intense don’t-distract-me-now look.

Bobby looks completely unfazed by Ross’s retort, just, like, coolly nodding his head, eyes set on him in that way that feels exactly like he’s having his head read, and again ten years old, and fuck that shit, they really don’t need that shit now. Sam’s demonic bunk-buddy is after them, Dad and Dean are wherever they are, in her clutches, and Sam’s just doing what he always fucking does: reading a fucking book.

They should be going after the damn demon already, maybe even giving up the stupid fucking gun, after all wasn’t like the useless piece of shit actually fucking worked ‘cause there’s no goddamn way he missed that shot, Ross Winchester doesn’t miss. Maybe the thing’s just as much of a fake as the one Dad toted across two states for the fake trade, except… it had worked on that lead vampire guy. Shit, maybe the Colt didn’t work ‘cause this demon is just too fucking bad-ass, after all, it has got Dad and Dean, and Dad and Dean are awesome hunters, there’s no freaking way they got taken by just some standard belly-crawling piece of demonic crap. The thought sends a prickle up his spine; he swallows, forcibly pushing the thoughts away as he turns around to confront Bobby again.

“What do you know about the demon?” he demands.

“Been helpin’ your daddy track it these past few months,” Bobby answers, all calm and nonchalant and like Ross is totally supposed to know this shit, when doesn’t Bobby fucking know that Dad was missing for, like, fucking months? And if he did know then why the fuck did he lie to them all those millions of times they called him and asked him if he’d heard from Dad, and does this mean that Bobby’s been lying to them for all this time, and if Bobby’s been lying, then have Dad’s other hunting buddies been lying to them too?

Sam’s head jerks up, something other than that stupid-ass book finally capturing his attention. “You've been helping Dad track the demon?”

“Uh-uh. He called me up, asked for my help, I agreed.” Bobby hesitates, looking uncomfortable for a moment, before he continues: “Look, I hated lying to you boys on the phone, but John had me promise not to tell you what he was up to, and boys, we never wanted you involved in any of this. This demon is one scary-ass sonofabitch, and your daddy, well, he can be one scary-ass sonofabitch too when he wants to be, and we both thought keeping you boys outta this would be the best thing…” he trails off, shaking his head irritably. “Jesus, this is one huge cluster-fuck your daddy’s gotten you into.”

Ross opens his mouth, about to retort, ‘cause fuck it, no one gets to say shit like that about his dad, even folk like Bobby who used to be practically, like, an uncle to them, and –

“Don’t, it’s okay,” Sam cuts in, darting Ross a warning look. Ross glares back at him but he does keep his mouth shut, after all, they’re here to ask Bobby to help them, pissing him off now ain’t gonna help at all. “It doesn't matter now,” Sam continues, “and I swear we’ll forgive everything if you just tell us how we can trap Meg when she turns up here.”

“You sure she’s gonna come here?”

“Dead sure,” says Sam grimly.

Ross swallows, his stomach is churning again, those same butterflies from the night before, and he knows that Sam’s right, something in his head, in his brain, his gut, whatever-it-is, maybe this sixth fucking sense he and Sammy seem to share, but something’s telling him that Meg is coming here, and she’s not very far behind them.

“Okay then, all you gotta do is make sure she walks under that,” Bobby says, tilting his head back so his eyes lock on the ceiling above them. Ross follows his gaze and sees the elaborate circle-shaped-magic-symbol-star thing painted on the ceiling, like Bobby’s own demonic Sistine Chapel, and fuck, that’s a… fuck, what’s it called…?

“A devil’s trap,” says Sam as if he’s answering Ross’s silent question.

Shit, a goddamn devil’s trap. Man, you really gotta appreciate a guy who’s so freaking paranoid he’ll actually paint a goddamn devil’s trap on his ceiling just in case… Wow, Sam was so fucking right when he drove them here.

“A devil’s trap,” Ross repeats. His eyes lock with Sam’s, and he can see the look of mad triumph glinting in his brother’s gaze. “Fuck, dude, we can, like, easily trap that bitch in this. We can really do this.”

“Yeah,” says Sam, nodding, his mouth curling upwards, eyes shining and voice trembling in a way that makes him sound hysterical, hell, they both probably sound hysterical. “Yeah, yeah. Bobby, seriously, man, you’re awesome.”

 

 

 

The thing that Ross forgets is that demons are fucking scary sonsofbitches. Hell, they are demons, not human, so fucking unnatural that they make every hair stand up on the back of his neck, and he knows people say that, use that analogy all the time, but sometimes those kinda clichés are true. They have her caught in the devil’s trap, tied to the chair and knocked out, but it doesn’t matter none. She jerks awake, her eyes flash black and her gaze locks directly on him, and he can’t help it, but the rush of gooseflesh all over him has the breath catch in his chest and the hairs on his arms sparking up like he’s just put his finger in an electric outlet. Just like that moment last night, like the second he and Sam bust into that nursery to see the shape looming over the crib, the flash of gleaming yellow eyes, so freaking unnatural and wrong that… shit… he _did_ hesitate, and maybe it wasn’t the Colt that fucked up, maybe it was him, maybe he was too slow, fluffed the shot, reflexes letting him down for the first time ever, letting them all down, letting the demon go free, the one time it really and truly counted.

“Aww, don’t beat yourself up, Littlest Bro,” she coos, lips curling over the words, smirk in her eyes.

“You don’t get to call me that,” he grits out, chest clenching up at the familiar nickname coming from her evil mocking mouth.

She laughs at him, mouth twisting into a sneer. “You did the best you could, pity it was so damn _pathetic._ But what can we expect from you? You’re nothing special, Ross, you know that. Even your brothers know that, it’s why they don’t let you play along anymore. You’re just not good enough to be one of them.”

“Don’t listen to her!” snaps Sam, drowning out her scornful laughter. Ross jerks his head to the side, sees his brother getting up from his spot at Bobby’s desk, holding a book in one hand. “Demons lie, we all know that.”

“Not always,” she retorts, gaze narrowing in on Sam.

“Yeah, well, doesn't matter all that much now ‘cause you're not gonna be around much longer, sweetheart,” says Sam, baring his teeth at her in a way that reminds Ross with a lurch of Dean. He watches Sam cross the floor, holding out the book in his hand so she can read the title. “You know what this is?”

She gives a contemptuous eye-roll. “Oh, please, an exorcism? Seriously, Sammy, this all you got? You gonna exorcise me?”

“You’re damn fuckin’ right I’m gonna exorcise you,” says Sam matter-of-factly. “But first, you’re gonna tell me where you got my brother.”

She gives another laugh, tilting her head back like some coquettish college chick trying to flirt, “What about your daddy? You don’t want to know where I’m keeping your daddy? Or you’re just too damn eager to get your little love-bunny back, Sammy, that you’re willing to let your daddy go? After all, can’t blame you, when _that’s_ what you’ll be left with if Dean buys it.” She cocks her head dismissively in Ross’s direction.

“Shut up!” Ross snarls out, suddenly far too aware of Bobby in the room with them. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, you goddamn bitch!”

“Oh, I think I do,” she says, “I think I know exactly what’s been going on these past few months, Littlest Bro –“

Thank God Sam cuts her off then with a torrent of Latin, his big deep voice drowning out her sickly, tinkling laugh.

_”Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino, qui fertis super caelum, caeli ad Orientem, Ecce dabit voci Suae, vocem virtutis, tribuite virtutem Deo.”_

She shudders, groans, eyes snapping to black as she jerks her head towards Sam: “I’m going to kill you, I’m going to rip the skin from your bones. And when I’m done with you, I’m going to do the same to your little brother!”

Sam pauses in his reading and raises his head, smirking slightly as he says, “No, you’re not, you’re gonna burn in hell, ‘cause I’m gonna keep reading unless you tell us where you’ve got Dean and our father.”

She doesn’t answer, teeth clenched, eyes burning black as they bore into Sam’s face.

“Fine, then I’ll continue,” says Sam coolly, looking back down at the page as if there’s no one else in the room with him but the demon. “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio, infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta, diabolica.”_

She’s really shaking now, shuddering and panting for breath like she’s having a goddamn fit, eyes rolling and any minute now she’s gonna start foaming at the mouth.

“Daddy’s dead, Sam! I killed him!” she cries out.

Sam’s ignores her, calmly reading: “ _Ergo draco maledicte, et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te, cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae Perditionis, venenum propinare.”_

“He begged for his life!” she grits out, but Sam’s still ignoring her, the deadly words still spilling from his mouth.

_“Vade, Satana, inventor et magister, omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis. Humiliare sub potenti manu dei, contremisce et effuge, invocato a nobis sancto et terribili nomine, quem inferi tremunt.”_

It’s really going fucking crazy now, a goddamn wind spilling and whipping up Bobby’s pages from his desk, sending them twirling to the floor, but Sam’s completely oblivious, pacing in front of the demon, and she’s thrashing in the chair, spitting curses and shaking, a full-on exorcist style freak-out.

“I’m gonna finish reading this, you know,” Sam says, and it’s almost like he’s having a regular conversation with a regular person, as if he’s completely unaware of the crazy, supernatural wind that’s blown up around them, of the chair that’s started moving of its own accord, of the psychotic, murderous demon bitch spitting and cursing at him.

Ross swallows, and for the first time since he can remember he feels genuinely afraid of his brother ‘cause right now – in this knockout match between that demon and his pain-in the-ass middle brother – he’d call it for Sam.

“I’m gonna send your skanky ass back to hell. But first, you’re gonna tell me what you did with my brother. And my father,” he adds as if it’s an afterthought, and for Sam, it probably is.

He gulps, feeling his fingers curl into fists by his side as he watches Sam lean over her, and Jesus fucking Christ, Sam is so big. And his hand, Sam’s putting his hand on her throat and pressing her back into the chair so it’s tilting on its back legs, and God – but Sam’s hands are goddamn _huge_ , easily spanning her throat, making it look stupidly fragile underneath.

“Where. Is. Dean?” Sam spells out slowly. His voice is calm, like, preternaturally calm, like he’s about to break out the psychotic Darth Vader, _apology accepted, Admiral_ shit.

“Dean is _dead_!” she cries out, trying to laugh through his chokehold.

Sam goes deadly still for a moment, then he takes a step back, raises his fist, and punches her.

It’s a thrill to his blood, a surge of warmth in his gut, a buzzing in his brain that is alarmingly close to arousal, and when his eyes meet Sam’s, he can feel everything mirrored in Sam’s body too. He can feel his brother’s wildly beating heart, can feel the thump-thump of his pulse and the pounding in his groin, and fuck, it’s overwhelming, it’s too much, and he still can’t truly believe that that was Sam. Sam’s mouth crooks up at the corner, Sam actually fucking smirks at him, then he turns around, and punches her again.

Sam’s always been the considerate, conscientious one, the one who told them that using “bitch” as an insult was degrading to women, (naturally that just meant that he and Dean, like, used it all the fucking time just to piss Sammy off), but Sam opens doors for women, Sam doesn’t have one night stands – sure that’s probably because he’d rather fuck his brother – but Sam also thinks one night stands are “disrespectful”, and Jesus Christ, Sam – the same old Sammy - just hit a girl. Twice.

But he should’ve known that this would happen. He should’ve expected this. Sam’s nice as pie, his prissy, gigantor, geek brother… until it comes to Dean, and then all fucking bets are off, ‘cause there’s one thing Ross’s realized over the years and that is Sam loses all grip on his sanity when anything threatens Dean.

She spits out a mouthful of blood and jerks her head back towards him, snarling. Sam shrugs in this totally whatever way, and moves forward again, grabbing her chin in his huge hand and pushing her head back almost enough to snap her neck.

“ _Where. Is. Dean_?”

“Ross?” Ross jumps when he feels Bobby’s hand on his arm, dragging him backwards, an urgent look on his face.

“What?” he hisses. He doesn’t want to look away from Sam and the demon right now; he can feel that Sam’s getting somewhere, that maybe Sam might be right after all, that perhaps, Dad and Dean are okay and that they’re gonna find them…

He swallows; his mouth feels dry, barely picking up what Bobby’s saying to him. “That’s a girl, Ross, that’s a girl possessed by a demon. Sam’s gotta be careful with her. There’s an innocent girl in there.”

Ross hears him, but the thing is, he doesn’t care. If this bitch knows where Dean and Dad are, and he’s beginning to believe that she does, then there’s no fucking way they’re not getting the information right the fuck now, whatever happens to the girl inside her.

He glances at Bobby, and nods, “Okay, we can work with that.”

Bobby stares back at him in confusion, his face going slowly horrified when Ross grabs the silver flask of holy water, steps forward and throws it at her. Her cries and screams are satisfying, the writhing and begging even more so, this bitch has got Dean and Dad, she deserves everything she gets. Sam spins around, mouth wide open in surprise, until it quirks into a half-smile when his eyes land on Ross. Behind Sam, she’s still crying out in pain, snarling, chair shuddering full-on exorcist again.

“Sammy, you finish readin’. I’ll dose the bitch when she needs it,” he says calmly.

Sam nods, giving him an approving look. When they turn to face her, they’re shoulder to shoulder.

 

 

*******************************************************

 

 

The first thing Dean’s aware of is his head, a pounding ache at the back of his skull, a heavy deadness in his limbs, his head and brain and eyes like stuffed cotton, mouth filled with sand. He can’t move, brain slowly grinding open.

 _Sam?_ he thinks, his brain latching automatically onto that one thought: _Sam?_

But Sam’s not here, he can remember that now, Sammy went to college, left him. It’s just him and Ross hunting together, because Dad left them too.

 _Ross?_ Goddamnit, he needs some painkillers, and some water. Usually, Ross is so good at this shit; Littlest Bro’s got a freaky metabolism, can’t take his booze, but never ever suffers from hangovers, not like his poor aching big brother. _Ross?_ he thinks again. Fuck, where is that goddamn kid? He’s suffering here.

“Dean?”

Huh? That’s a voice, a familiar voice…

“Dean? Wake up!”

The voice sounds gruff and irritable and disappointed in him, and there’s really only one person in the entire world who sounds like that.

_Dad?_

But what the fuck is Dad doing here? Dad’s been missing for months. He left him and Ross alone, so they went to get Sammy, the three of them are hunting together. Shit, yes, that’s right, Sam’s not at college anymore, Sam’s here, with him.

_Sam?_

“Your brother’s not here,” Dad’s voice says flatly. “It’s just you and me, Dean. Now, wake up, open your eyes.”

He tries to obey, he really does, he always tries to do what Dad tells him. But it’s so hard; his eyelids feel like someone’s wrapped duct tape over them. He tries to blink, tries to murmur: Where is Sam? Where is Ross? Why is just Dad here? What’s going on?

_Sam? Ross?_

“Dean!” Dad sounds really pissed now, and Dean has the absurd urge to laugh, break the tension. “Your brothers are not here. You have to wake up. They injected you with something, but you have to fight it, son. C’mon. Fight it.”

Ohhhh, well that makes everything soooo much clearer. Of course he’s been drugged. Well, that ain’t fair. How can Dad expect him to fight against that? Dad always expects so much, always wants too much. It’s exhausting. Why can’t Dad just let him sleep a bit longer? He was having such a nice dream before, it was a Sammy dream and they’re always his favorites, and this one was really special. Sam was wearing Speedos in this dream, and Sam looks good in Speedos, Sam looks good in everything, but especially good in Speedos, it’s a crying shame he doesn’t get to wear them more often.

Dean’s mouth slides into a lazy grin, the warmth flooding through his body at the memory. God, he feels kinda good right now, Dad should leave him alone, let him be, whatever they’ve drugged him with, it’s nice, Dad should definitely let him go back to dreaming about Sammy again.

“Dean!”

Dean’s arm is jerked so hard it almost feels like it’s being tugged out of his socket, the sudden stab of pain pushing him out of his dreamy, soporific state and into a sudden heat-beating, painful reality.

He’s on a bed. And that’s –

Dad.

That shape next to him, the human mass giving off warmth and smelling kinda gross… that’s Dad.

He wrinkles his nose, maybe he should tell Dad that he really needs to shower. But then again, maybe he should keep his mouth shut, Dad probably wouldn’t appreciate it.

“You awake now?” barks Dad’s voice, and Dean’s arm is pulled sharply once more, his shoulder socket twinges… and _ow_... why does Dad keep doing that?

He focuses his hazy eyes on his arm, and realizes with dismay that they’re handcuffed together. He and Dad are handcuffed together. His left wrist handcuffed to Dad’s right arm. And shit, did Ross play a prank on them again? Stupid little idiot, Dad’s gonna be so pissed about that.

“Dean?” Dad repeats sharply.

“Uh, yeah, yeah, I’m awake,” he mumbles, though he feels like he’s lying, the words barely managing to get past his dry, slow lips.

“Good. ‘Cause we need to figure out how to get outta here.”

Here? Where’s here?

Slowly, Dean focuses on the room around them. It’s a normal room, a bedroom in someone’s apartment, and he’s on the bed. No, scratch that, he and Dad are both on the bed. No scratch that again, he and Dad are tied to the bed. They’re not only handcuffed together, but they’re also tied to a freaking bed, and that’s… that’s kinda weird. Sure, he’s pretty grateful, ‘cause as experiences go, being tied to a bed with his clothes on and his dad beside him, is way better than some of the shit he’s had happen to him, way better than that time he was chained naked in some witch’s cellar about to be ritually deflowered, or that time he and Ross were tied to that stupid sacred apple-tree, or that time he was chained naked in some warlock’s cellar about to be ritually deflowered… He feels the absurd urge to laugh, but manages to stifle it, ‘cause Dad would really not appreciate that right now. Dad’s pretty humorless about being tied up, which he really should get over because it happens to them kinda a lot.

So, the next question is: why are they here? And who’s taken them prisoner?

And okay, so that’s two questions, but they’re both pretty fucking valid, and he’s gotta get his piece of shit memory working again. He’s tied to a bed with Dad, so that begs yet another burning question: where are Sam and Ross? And as questions go, that’s kinda the most important one ever.

“Where’s Sam and Ross?” he slurs.

“They’re not here, Dean,” Dad says exasperatedly. “But I’m sure they’re on their way to rescue us.”

“Oh,” he says, and okay, so that’s kinda fucked-up, a bit opposites-day-ish, but he can live with that. He’s quite happy to lie here on this bed and wait for Sammy and Ross to turn up and rescue them. “Oh, that’s good,” he adds.

It’s all slowly sliding back into place, his memory finally catching up to his newly awakened state. The Demon. The Demon with capital letters, they were hunting The Demon. The one that killed Mom and Jessica and probably lots of other people. But he and Dad were meeting with Meg, that stupid blond bitch that wanted to sleep with Sam, not that Sam would sleep with her, Sam’s totally in love with him, which is how it should be…

Which reminds him -

Oh God.

Dad knows. Dad knows about him and Sam. It’s all coming back now. That conversation in Dad’s truck.

_What the two of you do together, I can’t have it in my family. I can’t have sons that do – that do that – anywhere near me._

Oh God, a wave of grief hits him, oh God, oh God, knotting up his chest and making his eyes start to burn.

He promised Dad. After this, if they get out of this, he promised Dad that he’d leave, stay away from Sam and Ross.

Suddenly, he doesn’t care if he gets rescued.

A chuckle breaks the silence, a cloying, slithering chuckle. “Ohhh, this is just too damn easy, I can’t play along any longer, you’re just too fuckin’ pathetic, Dean.”

“Huh? What? Dad?”

“ _Dad?_ Seriously? You think this is your daddy speaking, boy? How dumb are you? No, wait, don’t answer that one, we know the answer to that one.” He breaks off, laughs again, that same cloying slimy sound, like water running down a rusty drainpipe, like nails on steel, all the worst sounds in the world coming out his father’s mouth.

Dean shudders, tries hopelessly to lift his hands, his weak, dead limbs refusing to cooperate, tugging pathetically at the bonds tying him to the bed, the handcuffs shackling him to Dad -

“I – what – what did you give me?” he stammers, the fear starting to take hold of him, adrenalin pumping uselessly, his body too weak to make use of it.

“Just a little something to make you sweet, prettyboy. Just so you can’t say no to Daddy.”

And then Dad’s moving, the bonds tying him to the bed slipping away, his big hand cupping Dean’s cheek, thumb brushing over Dean’s cheekbone, cruel-edged smirk and flash of yellow-glinted eyes as Dad’s face leans over him.

And no, God, no, this isn’t, no, this isn’t happening, Dad, please, he can’t, why’s he letting this happen? Why’s Dad doing this… he can’t, no –

Dad leans down, and his pitiless, smirking mouth is on Dean’s, thick, rough tongue pushing past Dean’s swollen lips and plundering his mouth. And, oh God, no, it’s dirty, like beetles crawling across his face, nightmares about graves and the maggots that hatch out of bodies, and his father’s tongue… a wet pink slithery maggot, and that’s still better than the reality, that’s still better than knowing that this is Dad’s tongue in his mouth, this is Dad’s mouth kissing his mouth.

He’s not aware how long it goes on, how long Dad lies on top of him grinding down into him, Dad’s tongue licking and sucking and dirtying and wiping away years and years of love and trust and belief, ‘cause Dean’s switched off, his eyes squeezed shut, brain shut off, trying to take him away from here -

“C’mon, sweetheart, you can’t tell me you didn’t like that,” Dad’s voice breathes out when he finally finishes. He sounds amused, like he’s in love with his own voice. “Not you, Dean. Not the boy who likes to fuck his little brother up the ass. You can’t tell me you ain’t thought about what it would be like to taste your daddy’s spit? Not when your little brother's tastes so damn good.”

“Get the fuck outta my Dad, you sonofabitch!” he croaks, but it’s so feeble, so weak and watery, the world already fading away, eyes fluttering closed. He’s gotta, he can’t –

 _What did you give me?_ he thinks, ‘cause his lips aren't working anymore, aren’t shaping the words right. And he can’t go to sleep, he can’t… not when Sam and Ross are coming here, they’re coming to rescue them, and he’s chained to this – this – _thing_ \- this -

“Yeah, that’s right,” says the demon in Dad’s soft rumbling voice. “Your baby brothers are on their way. Man, this is gonna be sweet. This is gonna be one helluva family reunion.”

He can see the hypodermic now, through his lurching, swimming vision, see it in Dad’s familiar capable hand, and there’s not even any time to panic, no time for anything, before everything’s gone for good.

 

 

****************************************

“Oh God, thank God,” breathes Sam in this totally dramatic way as they slam the door open. But Ross hasn’t got time to judge Sam for his typical drama-queen shit, ‘cause Dad and Dean are there, right there in front of them, tied to the bed and looking completely out of it, and that means they’ve done it, they’ve found them. He and Sam working together – they’ve done it.

Sam quickly sets to, laying a thick salt line at the door as Ross rushes towards the bed to untie them. “Wait! No, Ross!” Ross hesitates on Sam’s warning cry, spins around. “No, wait! They might be possessed.”

Right, yeah, course, yeah, they should totally check that. He pulls the flask out of the duffle on his shoulder, tosses the holy water over both Dad and Dean’s legs. There’s no sizzle, no spasm, no smoking cloud. He exchanges a quick glance with Sam, sees Sam’s exhale of relief, flash of teeth. Awesome. They’re good to go.

“I’ll get Dean, you get Dad,” Sam tells him.

Huh, of course it would be that way round. But whatever, that’s so not a priority right now. He scrambles to Dad’s side, pressing his fingers to his neck to check for a pulse as Sammy does the same to Dean, ‘cause they really, really don’t want this big happy moment to be ruined by Dad and Dean –

He gulps, okay, so he’s not gonna finish that thought, and whatever, it don’t matter, ‘cause that’s definitely a pulse and he can actually see Dad’s chest rising and falling as he saws away at the ropes binding him to the bed with his knife, all the time hissing out Dad’s name, trying to rouse him as he hears Sam call for Dean. Dad lets out a long groan, his eyelids starting to flutter, and Ross freezes, the crazy euphoric grin edging across his face, ‘cause he’s okay, Dad’s okay.

He glances up, at Sam, at Dean, but Dean’s not responding to Sam’s voice, to Sam’s hands on his shoulders, shaking him gently. Sam’s gotten him untied, but Dean’s still completely out of it, face cold and pale and totally impassive.

“Is he – is he okay?” Ross stammers, the euphoric feeling starting to ebb away.

Sam’s head jerks his way, blinks at him. “He, uh, he’s still breathing, he’s just – I think he’s been drugged. We’re gonna have to carry him. Look, just – let me get these cuffs off.”

He’s already fumbling out his pick, eyebrows and nose all scrunched up into Sam’s concentrating face as he gets to work on the handcuffs binding Dad and Dean together, and not for the first time, Ross is briefly grateful for Sam’s crazy lock-picking skills as the cuffs click open with an awesome chinking sound.

“Right, so, uh, you gotta go through the window.” He waves a hand towards the window he’s already scoped out. It’s their only exit after all, that or through the rest of the apartment, and those two demons won’t be kept quiet in that freaking closet for much longer. Sam nods at him, clenches his teeth, his expression set and determined as he pulls Dean into his arms, steadying himself so he’s got Dean across his shoulders in a fireman’s lift.

Ross watches Sam drag up the window and wrap those enormous long arms of his around Dean’s body as he climbs outside. He needs to get a goddamn grip, hell, this is hardly the first time he’s seen Dean look like that. Dean’s been drugged, poisoned and bitten by supernatural creatures plenty of times in the past, and he’s always gotten through it, always woken up fine, this is just another time like that, all they need to do is to get him to a hospital, he’ll be okay.

He turns back to Dad, Dad’s blinking blearily, big hand coming up to knot in Ross’s jacket, pull him in.

“Ross, Ross? That you?”

“Yeah, yeah it’s me, Dad, it’s me,” he breathes out, the smile starting to flicker again. “We’re here to rescue you.” _I’m Luke Skywalker, and I’m here to rescue you._

Dad huffs out a small breath, an indulgent fond look that makes Ross’s insides feel warm. “Can you? Can you walk, I can help you, but we gotta move now, Dad, we gotta go out that window.”

“I can do that,” says Dad. And Ross knows, can feel it in every single pore – the relief, the belief – of course Dad can do this, it’s Dad.

Sam’s already at the bottom of the ladder, he’s gotten Dean propped up against the side of the wall, and he’s crouching over him, tongue slicking over his lips in that nervous way he has as his attention flits between watching Dean and watching him and Dad edge down the ladder.

They manage to make it to the car without anyone spotting them, and that’s got to be the first fucking break they’ve ever caught, though that fact – just them catching a motherfucking break – is kinda weird, and it feels strangely off. God, maybe he’s getting as freakishly paranoid as Dad, as Bobby, as all the other freakishly paranoid hunters they know.

He pushes the uneasy feelings to the back of his mind and helps Sam slide Dean into the backseat. He climbs in there after him, Dad taking shotgun while Sam’s in the driver’s seat again.

“Well that was –“ Sam starts to say.

“- A bit too easy,” finishes Dad gruffly.

“Yeah,” says Ross, “yeah, I was just thinkin’ that. You think they mighta done something to the car? Like, a tracking device?”

“Dude, this isn’t Star Wars,” snaps Sam.

Ross glares at the back of his head, shifts in his seat. He’s got Dean’s head pillowed in his lap, his hand hovering an inch above his brother’s mouth, he can feel the soft, warm huff-huff of Dean’s breath tickling the skin of his palm, reassuring him that Dean is still alive, still breathing.

“No, your brother’s right, Sam,” says Dad, and Ross clamps back on the desire to shout: _So there!_ in Sam’s ear. “It was too easy. Which means they're probably following us, they’re not gonna let us or the Colt get away so easily. Speaking of, what did you do with it?”

“Oh, it’s safe,” says Sam. “We left it in the trunk, chalked a few devil’s traps onto the outside. Don’t worry, sir, no demon’s gonna be able to get at that.”

Dad makes a noise that sounds oddly like a cross between a grunt of approval and a huff of annoyance, but then again, it’s kinda hard to tell sometimes with Dad. But, whatever, it doesn’t matter, ‘cause Sam’s wrong about that, the Colt isn’t in the trunk, it’s tucked away in the inside pocket of Ross’s jacket, though he’s not about to admit that right now. There was no freaking way Ross was going into this rescue mission empty handed and the Colt was their best weapon, their only line of defense, Sam was totally wrong about insisting on leaving it behind. Perhaps when they stop somewhere he can sneak it back into the trunk, make out like it was there all the time.

They all go silent for a moment and Ross traces his finger over the soft strip of skin of Dean’s throat, gently caressing the spot where his brother’s pulse beats slow and steady under his fingertips. He sucks in a breath, watches Dean’s eyelashes flutter like he’s dreaming something. A surge of protectiveness and love wells up in his chest and he clamps back on the urge to curl himself around Dean, cradle him close and kiss him, hold him like Dean’s held him so many times in the past. Instead he bites his lip and turns his attention to the outside, to the dark landscape flashing past as Sam drives them wherever he’s driving them.

“He doing okay?”

Sam’s voice wrenches him from his thoughts and he glances up at the driver’s mirror, see Sam’s eyes reflected in it, his big furrowed brow.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s okay. Still breathing.”

“Good,” Sam exhales. “We’re gonna be at a hospital soon.”

“Sam, we are not going to a hospital!” Dad’s voice breaks in, commanding and rough.

“What? Yes we are!”

“No, we are not. The hospital is the first place they’re gonna come looking for us. Use your brain, boy, it’s far too risky!”

“I don’t care,” says Sam through gritted teeth. “Dean needs medical attention. They could’ve given him anything; he might be permanently damaged if we don’t get him to a hospital now.”

“Sam, that was an order.”

Dad’s getting really pissed now and Sam’s getting red-faced, teeth clenched and breathing heavy. Shit, this is… this is really fucking not good. God, Dad and Sam fighting, why is it always Dad and Sam fighting? And why isn’t Dean awake to stop them? To come between them and quietly resolve everything? Sam will never give in to Dad now, there’s no fucking way Sam’s gonna do what Dad’s telling him. Dad didn’t see Sam this morning with Meg, Dad doesn’t get exactly how crazy bat-shit insane Sam is about Dean.

Dad hisses out a long drawn-out barely restrained breath; when he speaks, his voice is dripping with anger: “There is a cabin, about seventy miles along Route 73, we hole up there. It’s good and safe and we can see to your brother there, regroup, figure out our next move, how we’re gonna tackle this sonofabitch.”

“No,” Sam repeats stubbornly.

“Sam…”

“No, Dad! Just – no! Fighting the demon – killing the demon – that’s your fight. Some things are more important than that, and Dean is – Dean is. We just gotta get him to a hospital. We do that, we make sure he’s okay, then we figure out how to handle the demon. Until Dean’s okay, I ain’t doin’ a goddamn thing you tell me.”

“Sam, I am your father, and you will do –“

“ _I said no_!”

 

 

***************

Sam can’t remember the first time he fell in love with Dean, can’t remember the first occasion he looked at his brother and felt _that_ – that scary overwhelming tug in his belly that was lust and admiration and adoration and so much more – but he can remember the first time he realized that his feelings might be reciprocated.

He was fifteen, finally starting to grow upwards, finally topping Ross by a couple of inches, his clothes getting too small on him, pants falling comically above his ankles, shirts stretching across his shoulders and falling short of his waistband. Dean was nineteen, and he was so beautiful and so desirable that it used to make Sam ache inside just to look at him. He would lie in their shared bed, and watch Dean sleep, want so desperately to run his fingers over Dean’s face, trace his delicate cheekbones, kiss his eyelashes and run his tongue through his glinting gold stubble, and just worship him, show him how much he loved him. But he was so frightened, so repulsed by his own wrong feelings for Dean, so terrified of Dean’s rejection, of seeing the disgust in his beloved brother’s face, so he never did anything.

That night he was lying on the floor on his belly in front of the TV, leafing through a book that Pastor Jim had recently sent Dad. Dean was on the couch with Ross, the two of them watching one of those lame sitcoms, _Happy Days_ or _My Two Dads,_ , or _Married With Children_ , something like that. Ross lay on his side with his head pillowed on Dean’s thighs, his arm hanging off the couch, fingers brushing against the carpet, while Dean was idly stroking one hand through Ross’s short, dark hair, the other curled loosely around a bottle of Bud.

He can remember the dirty coil of envy deep his belly as he watched Dean and Ross sprawled together so easily, so innocently. Sam wanted so badly to be touching Dean, to be the one lying with his head on Dean’s lap, Dean’s hands in his hair; but he knew he couldn’t be that little brother. Just brushing up against Dean’s body made his treacherous dick perk up; he couldn’t be close to Dean without Dean catching his dirty little secret. But Ross… Ross just demanded affection from Dean so easily, with this pure-hearted need that Sam used to feel a long time ago, but that had long since twisted into this perverted fucked-up yearning. As for Dean, he couldn’t get enough of Ross’s neediness and affection, he loved playing the big brother and protector, loved being needed. It made them the perfect symbiosis, and left Sam lying on the floor, watching from the sidelines, odd brother out.

He knew that Ross must’ve fallen asleep, he’d stopped laughing and started snoring, soft little huff-huff’s of breath. Sam closed his book and stretched his arms out in front of him, palms brushing against the stiff, scratchy carpet. He turned his head to glance at his brothers, and froze. Dean was staring at him, his gaze fixated on the dip of Sam’s spine, on the bare skin revealed where his badly fitted t-shirt had rucked up, on the curve of his ass in his faded jeans. Sam felt the breath seep from his lungs, every hair on his body perk up as he realized where and how Dean was looking at him. Dean flinched, his eyes going wide and terrified as they caught Sam’s; he made a small choking sound in the back of his throat and dragged his gaze away, a startling pink flush springing to his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Sam gulped and twisted his head sharply, going back to staring at the carpet. He could feel his dick, hard as steel in his pants, pressing down painfully into the floor, a sensation like butterflies in his belly, his heart beating like he’d just finished a six mile run. Dean had been watching him, looking at him with the same look in his eyes that Sam felt when he watched Dean, and he’d caught him doing it.

It hadn’t been long after that moment that he’d made his first move on Dean. Dean had rejected him, had rejected him the next three or four times too, but that moment had changed everything. He’d realized that he wasn’t alone, and that had changed everything, it had given him hope.

 

 

 

Sam rubs the heels of his palms over his eyes and turns his gaze back to his brother’s still, white face. The doctors figured out what Dean’d been drugged with quickly and reassured them that it wasn’t serious, just a heavy dose of Rohypnol, causing Ross to exclaim disbelievingly, “He was roofied? Seriously? What kinda lame-ass demon fuckin’ roofies you? Fuck.”

Dad had stayed in the waiting room, avoiding both him and Ross. He’d taken care of the hospital staff, given them whatever story he’d cooked up to explain his son’s Rohypnol experience which wouldn’t cause them to call the police, Dad was always good at that, always so believable and commanding. Dad had stayed in the waiting room, stony faced and pissed, while Sam and Ross had demon-proofed the room, laying what salt lines they could without the staff noticing, graffiting devil’s traps and other sigils from Bobby’s demon book into the window ledges and doorframes. Dad hadn’t even entered the room to say goodbye to Dean before he’d taken off, dragging Ross along with him, to check into the motel they’d noticed a couple of blocks away. He didn’t bother suggesting Sam join them.

It hurts that Dad couldn’t be bothered to check on Dean properly before he left, that Dad barely directed a word his way before he dragged Ross away. It hurts, but it’s not surprising. Sam disobeyed, so Sam is persona-non-grata once more. It’s always been that way with Dad, you’re either with him, or you’re not, and once again, Sam is not. But it’s hard to bring himself to truly care about that right now, not while Dean’s still unconscious, not when he’s got his brother back, the two of them against all odds coming out of this alive. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen next, there’s a part of him that thinks maybe him and Dad… they’re through, that bridge is finally razed to the ground, but as long as he has Dean, he can deal with anything.

Dean stirs, moans softly, and Sam’s heartbeat quickens, eyes darting hungrily to his brother’s face for any sign of movement. Dean’s eyelids are fluttering weakly, and Sam forces himself to wait, to be patient, to let Dean wake up gradually, in his own time.

“Sam,” Dean murmurs, his voice weak and cracked. “Sammy.”

“I’m here,” he says, leaning over and pressing his lips to Dean’s warm, clammy cheek. “I’m here, Dean, I’m here.”

Dean’s mouth twitches, amusement, exasperation, concern, fondness, a mixture of all four. He blinks, swallows, mouths: “Ross?”

“It’s okay, he’s okay. He’s with Dad,” he whispers reassuringly.

At that, Dean’s mouth really starts to work, an agitated, frightened look flitting across his face. He blinks and his eyes finally manage to lock on Sam’s face.

“No, no, not Dad…”

“No, shush, it’s okay,” Sam reassures him. “Dean, it’s okay. Dad’s okay. We rescued you. Me and Ross, we rescued you both. Dad and Ross are okay, they’re in a motel, just –“

“No, no, Sammy, no, no, no,” Dean protests hopelessly, getting more and more agitated. The heart-rate monitor’s getting agitated too, steady beep-beep-beep getting faster and faster.

Sam swallows, gaze flicking between the machine - the dip and fall of red lines, the proof of Dean’s rapidly increasing heart-rate, of his distress - and Dean’s face.

“Dean, please, what is it, man? Dean, tell me.”

“No, no, Sammy, no, you gotta – Ross – gotta save Ross. He’s not safe.”

“But he’s with Dad –“

“ _It’s not Dad_!” Dean cries out, his fingers claw at Sam’s shirt, eyes blazing. “Sammy, it’s not Dad, it’s the demon!”

 

[Next Chapter](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/26644.html)


	19. Chapter 19

The Impala’s gone and the motel room is empty.

Sam places one hand on the door frame, quickly scanning the parking lot for any sign of the car, of Ross, of Dad – no, not Dad, the demon, because that wasn’t Dad, that was the demon. All that time, all those hours, riding in the car alongside the three of them, the demon, not Dad. The thought makes him feel sick, a physical swoop of nausea to his belly, bile catching at the back of his throat as he tries to swallow it back.

The motel room looks exactly the same as any other motel room they’ve stayed in over the past few years. Nothing to tell that one of its inhabitants is anything other than what he seems, no lingering, tell-tale scent of sulfur or aura of demonic wrongness permeating the wrinkled wall-paper and nicotine stained ceiling, instead just a chaos of strewn clothes, the cache of weapons carefully zippered shut and thrown into the bottom of a flimsy wood closet, and the tangy smell of shower gel and sweat.

Everything seemed so simple only 24 hours earlier. They had a mission: Save Dean, Save Dad. Easy. Cold stone clarity. He was going to get Dean back and he didn’t care what he had to do, who he had to kill to do it. Hell, he’d killed Meg. He and Ross hadn’t given a shit that there was an innocent, possessed girl trapped inside that body alongside the demon. And he'd thought – God, he'd thought they’d done it, that they’d actually come out on top for the first fucking time in their lives. He should’ve known better. When have the Winchesters ever managed to catch a break?

The furthest bed is covered in wet towels and dirty clothes. Ross’s dirty clothes, the shirt and undershirt and old ragged jeans that he’d been wearing for the past two days – Dean’s jeans – Sam can see that now, Dean’s jeans and Dean’s shirt because Ross is constantly wearing Dean’s clothes these days. In fact, he’s been wearing Dean’s clothes ever since Dean rejected him all those weeks ago. It probably says something about Ross’s mindset; about just how fucked up his little brother is, about his debilitating dependence on Dean and Dean’s own need for that dependence because Dean has never remarked once on Ross’s new-found affection for stealing and wearing his clothes, Dean has been letting Ross get away with it.

Sam curls his fingers around the shirt, bunching the soft, worn fabric in his hands. He can remember Dean wearing this shirt about a month back, they’d pulled up on some lonely back road in the middle of the night because Dean could hear some odd noises coming from his baby’s engine and God forbid he not check that out immediately, despite the freezing cold and the pitch black night. So Dean popped the hood, made Sam stand beside him holding the flashlight, Ross asleep in the backseat while Dean fixed whatever little niggling fault he’d imagined. Sam stood beside him; one arm draped across his brother’s back, his face against Dean’s shoulder, the soft warmth of his flannel shirt – this flannel shirt – underneath his cheek as he held the flashlight in place. Dean finished up, turned around and pulled him into a kiss, grease-dirtied fingers coming up to cradle Sam’s cheek, black smudges of warpaint across Sam’s cheekbones as they made out under the stars.

“Why don’t you try using your freaky ESP thing?”

Sam jumps, snaps his head around to see Dean leaning up against the doorframe, white-faced and shaky but with that steely, determined look in his eyes that Sam recognizes way too fucking well.

“Dean, what the fuck are you –“

“Save it!” Dean interrupts. He holds up a hand as if to silence him. “We got more important shit to worry about.”

“Dean…”

“Sam!” Dean snaps. “Not now! After we know Ross is okay, after we’ve exorcised that sonofabitch, then I’ll go back to hospital like a good little boy, but not now, okay?”

Sam gulps, nods. He knows that he can’t argue with Dean, it will just be a waste of both their time.

“Right. So – you wanna spark up that freaky vision thing? Try and locate them?”

“Dean, I don’t know if –“

“You and Ross are connected, right? There must be some way that you can…” he waves a hand, staring fixedly at Sam, “… you know, like, locate him, using that big, freaky noggin of yours?”

“Dean, no, seriously. I don’t think it works like that. Listen – Dad – the demon – he mentioned something about a cabin out on Route 73. He wanted me to drive us there, but I refused and took you to hospital instead. He might’ve taken Ross there.”

Dean nods, crosses the room towards the closet, the bag of weapons. He crouches down, unzippers the bag. “Okay, so we’ll start there. You’ll have to steal us a car.” He takes out a couple of sawed-offs, grabbing handfuls of ammo and thrusting it into the pockets of his jacket as he recrosses the room. “C’mon!”

Dean leans against the side of an old Dodge, doing his best to look nonchalant as Sam quickly slips the lock. He darts Dean a look, he still looks pale, his breathing heavy and slightly labored, and he’s obviously leaning against the car for support, and not just to look nonchalant and unsuspicious.

“Hey,” he whispers. Dean jerks his head around, blinks, “You okay? I’m serious, Dean, you just got roofied. You were unconscious. If you’re –“

“Sam, I’m fine!” Dean growls. “And you can say what you want, but there’s no fuckin’ way I’m sittin’ this one out. That bastard has Ross and Dad.”

“And it’s probably expecting us to do just this – to come after it.”

He pries the door open, metal squeaking angrily, Dean glares at him and slides inside, shifting over to the driver’s side.

“Dean, no! You can’t seriously expect –“

“Sam! Get in! We’re wasting time here. And you need to do your Force thing, you can’t drive!”

Sam grits his teeth and slides into the shotgun seat, watching Dean pull off one of the beige faux-leather panels to get to the wiring. Dean was always the best at that, could hotwire a car in under 30 seconds. They pull out the parking lot with a squeal of breaks. Sam closes his eyes and tries to concentrate, tries to think about Ross, picturing his little brother’s face in his mind: big dark eyes, long eyelashes and wide generous mouth. He feels preposterous, like a fraud. He can’t do this, there’s no _connection_ between him and Ross, they’re brothers, sure, and they look alike, but seriously, some sort psychic mind-meld bullshit... No, that’s just not going to happen.

He snaps his eyes open, turns his head to look at Dean. Dean’s staring through the dusty windshield; he looks exhausted, worn-out, fingers clamped around the wheel like a vise. He really, really shouldn’t be here; if Dad were here then he’d have forced Dean to stay behind to recover properly, like this, Dean is more of a liability than a help. But Dad’s not here, Dad’s… Fuck, Dad’s possessed. Possessed by the evil thing he’s been hunting for all these years, and if that isn’t some goddamn freaky irony then he really doesn’t know what is.

He flexes his fingers, he feels so stiff, his whole body stiff and tense and he really needs to sleep. He’s been awake for… God, must be nearly three days straight now, and it’s worse than that time all those years ago when he was 18, when they were chasing those mutant alligators for three days straight through the Florida swamp. He could remember the exhilaration and adrenalin threading through his body as he and Dean tore through the jungle after Dad had split the four of them up, Dean’s dazzling, white-toothed grin when he finally took out the final demonic motherfucker with a spray of blood and guts and gore and scaly gator parts, how Dean had pushed him back against a tree, bark scratchy through his thin, sweat-soaked shirt, and kissed him until they were both breathless, sinking to his knees and staring up at Sam with his blood and mud-streaked face as he tugged Sam’s fly open...

_“Shit!”_

Dean’s cry yanks Sam from his momentary fantasy, the car coming to a skidding halt, and then Dean’s stumbling out the door, running jaggedly towards something. Sam gulps, snaps off his seatbelt and tumbles out the car after him.

It’s the Impala, smashed up against a couple of huge, looming fir trees. Headlights on, doors open, soft sound of CCR’s _Bad Moon Rising_ drifting towards them, steam rising from the half-open hood. It’s a wreck, formally gleaming sides dented and scratched, front bumper crumpled, headlights gleaming jaggedly through the wreckage.

Sam gulps again, bile and acid corrosive and sour at the back of his throat as he takes in the sight. There’s no sign of Ross, no sign of Dad, but there’s also no sign that either of them were hurt, no blood smeared to the cracked windshield or the upholstery.

He glances at Dean, the whites of his brother’s eyes are stark in the reflected headlights and his mouth is working dumbly, hands smoothing haphazardly over the dented, crumpled bodywork, soft murmurs of, “No, no, no, no, no…” seeping unchecked from his mouth.

Sam stumbles through the grass and mud, sliding up to his brother until he’s got his hand on Dean’s shoulder, his side against Dean’s. Dean turns his head slowly, stark glittering eyes meeting Sam’s, the glisten of tears on his long, dark lashes.

“It’s okay,” Sam whispers, “we’ll find them, it’ll be okay, Dean. We’ll find them and you can fix her. She’ll be okay. She’s tough.”

Dean huffs out a broken hitching sound and Sam squeezes his shoulder, leans over his brother to switch off the engine, pulling the keys out the ignition and sliding them into his pocket. “C’mon,” he says, trying to sound reassuring. He squeezes Dean’s shoulder again, leans closer to press his mouth to Dean’s temple, starts to push him away from the wreckage. “They must be okay. We just gotta find their tracks – we can –“

“There,” Dean interrupts dully. He lifts a hand, points through the lines of trees. Sam follows his gaze, there’s a cabin, yellow light glinting eerily through the thick trees.

Sam keeps his hand knotted in the sleeve of Dean’s jacket as they stumble through the trees towards the ominous yellow lights of the cabin. He feels like a stupid child in a fairy tale, like Hansel and Gretel running towards the Evil Witch’s marzipan lair. He can hear his own pulse beating rapidly, the blood bashing in his head, and Dean’s breathing heavy and labored as they half-run, half-stagger towards the cabin.

Wordlessly they drop to their knees as they draw close; creeping on their bellies, out of sight of the big open windows. A shadow crosses the window and Sam freezes, it’s Dad – the demon – peering out through the glass, those gleaming malevolent eyes scanning the clearing like high beams. He knots his fingers harder in Dean’s jacket, pushes the two of them into the ground, the rain-soaked grass soaking through his jeans and shirts. Dean glares at him, unknots Sam’s fingers with a pointed look. Sam represses the urge to laugh again, instead following his brother as they crawl to the side of the cabin.

Sam gets slowly to his feet, keeping his body pressed up against the side of the cabin he peers around the edge of the window-frame. Ross is tied to a chair in the middle of the room, unconscious, his head sagging against his chest, hair covering his face. Sam’s stomach gives a lurch; he presses his hand over his mouth to repress a gasp as he sinks to the ground beside Dean.

“What?” hisses Dean.

“Ross."

“Is he okay?”

“I don’t know.”

He sees the roll of Dean’s throat as he swallows, sees his quick, hard nod, the setting of his teeth.

“The demon?” Dean asks.

“I don’t know, I can’t see it.”

He gets back to his feet, grateful for the wall behind his back. There’s a table in the corner of the room, and the Colt’s lying on it, dead centre, apart from that and the chair Ross is tied to there’s no more furniture, just rough wood floors, one bulb hanging bare from the ceiling. No sign of the demon.

“He’s not – I can’t see it – I –“

“Sam and Dean! Well, isn’t this a happy family reunion!”

The booming, cheesy villain voice is the last thing he hears before he’s unconscious again.

 

 

 

*****************************

 

 

Ross wakes up to the sound of his father’s voice – no, not his father, the demon – ‘cause his father – he would never do that to him, never say that to him, like, no fucking way, his father loves him, has always loved him best, more than his brothers, more than anyone, except maybe his dead wife. Dad came to get him when he was lost, took him from the children’s home, made him one of them. Dad was wanted by the FBI for years for that, Dad risked everything for him, Dad loves him.

“Nice of you to join us, Ross,” says Dad’s voice, and it’s nothing like Dad’s voice, and how can he ever have thought that was Dad? This voice is cruel and mocking, sneering and sarcastic, and okay, so Dad could be all those things when he wanted, but never to him, never to Ross.

He blinks, the room coming hazily into focus around him. He’s tied to a chair, bindings tight around his wrists and chest, and it’s dark, really dark, no lights on and no moon outside; the only light in the room coming from the feeble starlight outside, the big black window in front of them. He has vague memories of being in the car, of Dad crashing the car on purpose, wrenching the steering wheel and hurtling them towards a bank of dark, swaying trees, squeezing his eyes shut and thinking that Dean was never going to forgive him for being taken in by a demon and letting that demon crash his beloved baby.

He seems to be in a cabin, so Dad – the demon - must’ve taken him here after he crashed the car. He glances down at himself, he’s still wearing one of Dean’s shirts, but his jacket is missing, and his heart sinks, realizing that the demon must’ve discovered the Colt by now, have found it where he'd hidden it in his inside pocket. Goddamnit, Sammy was right, he should’ve left the fucking thing in the trunk, at least there it was protected by all the freaking devil traps Sam had drawn, the demon would never have been able to get at it there. But no, like a total tool, he's practically handed the fucking thing over to the sonofabitch on a fucking plate.

He squirms, testing the strength of the bindings, unsurprisingly, they’re really fucking strong, but, hey… what the… back up a damn moment… There’s something – someone – some person - pressed up warm and hard against his back, someone big and strong and freaking enormous. Someone who smells really fucking familiar: cigarette smoke and gun-oil and Winchester sweat… Sam or Dean, then? Gotta be Sam, Dean’s in hospital, Dean’s safe, they totally demon-proofed his room, that sonofabitch is not getting anywhere near Dean, but Sammy though… fuck it! Sam’s gone and walked into this fucking trap just like he did, and Sam’s supposed to be the smart one.

His stomach clenches up, a nauseous, despairing coil, and if he’d actually eaten anything in the past 48 hours, then he’d definitely have lost it now, so, yeah, just as fucking well they hadn’t had chance to eat a damn thing. He hitches in a breath, tries to get himself under control; he needs to remember Dad’s training, because if that bastard really does have both him and Sam in its clutches then he’s got to be awake and sharp and on the fucking ball, and ready to figure out his next move, ready to get them the hell outta there. He’s got to save Sam, recapture the Colt, and get that demonic piece of crap out of Dad, and then get them all safely back to Dean, and hope, Christ, _pray_ that Dean’s still okay.

He flexes his fingers, and with a surge of relief, he feels the other hand brush back against them, and, yeah, thank God, that’s most definitely Sam, only Sam’s fingers are that freakishly long. He can feel Sam breathing now through their smashed-together bodylines, and hear the demon’s treads on the wooden floor, make out its big, lurking shape as it paces in front of them.

“What have you done with Dean?” he hears Sam ask.

The demon pauses in its pacing, the wooden floor creaking ominously as it twists on its heels. “You don’t get to ask questions, Sammy.”

Ross gulps, his vision is getting clearer as his eyes adjust to the dark, and he watches the demon stride towards the corner of the room and pick something up. When it turns around, it’s holding out the Colt, barrel aimed directly at him and Sam.

“You won’t believe what a pain in my ass this thing has been,” the demon remarks easily, like he's addressing a fucking audience and not just him and Sam. “And now, it’s all mine. Same as you boys.” It smirks, those horrible yellow eyes glinting as it adds smugly: “And your daddy.”

“What have you done with Dean?” Sam grits out again. Ross flinches, because Sam’s tone is like daggers and he knows that if he got a glimpse of his brother’s face then his stare would be equally hate-filled and icy, and that… so not a good idea right now, with this demonic sonofabitch towering over them, holding the goddamn Colt.

The demon chuckles warmly, and Christ, but that makes him sound just like Dad, exactly like Dad.

“Oh, Dean’s taken care of. Don’t you worry your pretty little heads about him.” That grating, mocking chuckle again, his voice threaded through with a horrible, knowing sort of contempt that turns Ross’s stomach, making it lurch like he’s about to throw himself over a cliff-face with no safety rope. “You know,” the demon continues conversationally, “he was going to leave you, abandon the both of you.”

“What do you mean?” Ross blurts out, unable to stop himself.

The demon jerks his head, his gaze raking over Ross and going amused and almost gleeful, like he totally knows he’s hit pay-dirt. He smiles silkily, starlight catching the white strip of his bared teeth and those stained yellow eyes. “Dean was going to leave you both,” he repeats, deliberately slowing down his words, like he’s explaining something to a couple of retards, like he’s really, really enjoying it. “John found out all about Dean’s sordid little _arrangement_ with Sammy, and he told him to get gone, and Dean, well… we all know how much Dean enjoys taking orders, what a good little bitch he is… He couldn’t wait to say yes to Daddy. Finally, the chance to get away from you, Littlest Bro, his pathetic, sniveling, clingy, bastard brother. You’ve been a millstone around your big brother's neck ever since John shot his load up your momma’s cunt…” his voice shifts up into a horrible, grating falsetto: “ _Pay attention to meeee, Dean, why don’t you love me, Dean? Why don’t you love me like you love Sammy, Dean?”_

“No, that’s a fuckin’ lie! No, you got it all wrong, you sonofabitch!”

The demon laughs out loud, but the joke's on him 'cause he is so wrong, he’s totally wrong. Dean would never agree to just leave, Dean would never leave him, Dean loves him, Dean would never think of him like that.

He feels Sam’s fingers brush against his own, and he flinches, tries to jerk away, he doesn’t want Sam’s fucking sympathy or reassurance right now. The demon’s still chuckling, pacing towards them and looming over Ross, looking down at him with this contemptuous expression that reminds Ross with a lurch of Dad, shaking his head over a local sheriff's department bungling a case.

“You know, John knew about Sam and Dean’s incestuous fuck-fest for a long, _long_ time, but he was still too darned dumb to see what was really going on under his nose,” he pauses dramatically, before smirking at Ross and continuing: “luckily, I’ve been able to enlighten him. To bring him up to date with recent events. Now Daddy knows exactly how eager his precious little boy was to get his cherry ass in the air for Dean's fat cock, how you begged and begged to give it up to your big brothers. Both of them…”

Ross’s stomach knots up as he screams out: “No! NO! _It wasn’t like that!_ Dad, it wasn’t – don’t listen to him! I never did – you got it all wrong – I ain’t like that! I ain’t like them!”

The demon laughs, loud and genuinely amused, cutting off Ross protestations with a wave of his hand. “I can read your mind, Littlest Bro; I know you’re lying your hot little ass off. I know how long you been coveting your brothers’ sweet bacon, how long you’ve been dreaming of Dean pounding you into the mattress while you beg for it like the bitch you are...” Ross’s chest heaves as he scrabbles for breath, his voice locked away as the demon holds his hand up and laughs, yellow eyes raking over him like a flashlight, like he’s peeling away the outer layers, the skin and bone, and peering underneath. “Me and Daddy are bosom buddies, now, boys. Ain’t no secrets between us, though, I gotta hand it to him, Jonny Boy’s got some mighty interesting secrets locked away in this meat suit –“

“My God, you really do like the sound of your own voice.”

Ross jumps, twists in his chair at the sound of Dean’s voice. His brother’s leaning against the doorframe to the room behind them, barely managing to hold himself upright, face pale and streaked with blood and looking like total shit, but it’s Dean, God, Dean’s here, it’s gonna be okay ‘cause Dean will have something figured out and it’ll be okay and Dean will save them. He swallows, feels Sam flinch behind him, and for a moment, he can feel the blood pumping hard in Sam’s veins, feel every muscle tense, primed and ready, feel every single pore of his brother’s body come alive as if they’re his own, an overwhelming awareness of Sam, taking over and invading his entire consciousness, that same freaky at-one-ness as when they exorcised that demon at Bobby’s place.

“Dean!” greets the demon with menacing cheerfulness. “You just couldn’t stay away, could you?”

It pulls away from Ross and Sam, and slowly saunters towards Dean, just like Dad when he enters a bar, letting every motherfucker know who’s boss, that he’s about to take those suckers for every last dollar they have. “Though, I have to say,” it continues conversationally, “you’re lookin’ a _leetle_ worse for wear there, champ.”

It comes to a halt in the middle of the room, big looming shadow seeming to take up all the empty space. There’s a long pause and Ross can hear Dean breathing, hard and labored and hissy, like he’s breathing through a damaged lung, and fuck, that could be the case, that could totally be the case, it would be just like Dean to be so fucking brave and desperate and full of fucked-up bravado to turn up with a damaged lung and taunt the motherfucker that’s stolen their Dad. And what the fuck is Dean even doing here? Why isn’t he in hospital where he belongs, instead of here, getting his stupid-ass self fucking killed?

The demon tilts his head to one side, thrusts out one hand in a weirdly leisurely, nonchalant kinda way, and Dean crumples to the floor, like his safety rope has just been cut.

_“No! You sonofabitch!”_

And it could be his or Sam’s voice, because he can’t fucking tell which of them it is that’s screaming out loud, maybe both of them. But Dean’s lying on the floor, coughing and choking and there’s blood on his lips, and he’s groaning and whimpering and the demon’s cackling over him, flexing his fingers in time with Dean’s screams and for one weird moment, Ross thinks that the demon’s performing the freaking _crucio_ curse on his brother, except he’s not saying the words out loud and of course that isn’t even real, this sonofabitch isn’t fucking Voldemort, and what the hell is wrong with his brain to be dredging up that shit right now?

“No, no, no, stop it, no, stop it! Stop hurting him! You goddamned sonofabitch! Stop it! You’re gonna kill him! Stop it, please…”

Sam’s voice. Begging and pleading, wrecked and hoarse with sobs and desperation, but the demon’s ignoring him, enjoying it, getting off on it, on torturing Dean, laughing like he’s the freaking Evil Emperor in _Jedi_ with fingers full of Force-lightning and he’s teaching Luke Skywalker a lesson for not turning to the dark side.

 _“NO!”_ Sam screams, and his fingers stretch and wrap around Ross’s hand, the touch is electric, like, literally, _electric_ : a jolt through his system, a flash, a blinding, deafening crack, and both he and Sam are on the floor, chairs shattered around them, splintered wood and frayed ropes, they’re both free of their bindings and Ross has absolutely no fucking idea what just happened, what he and Sammy just did.

Ross raises his head groggily, the floor is hard and gritty beneath him, dirty and disgusting, the wood splinters poking and grazing at his skin. He feels like he’s been emptied, all his insides, all of him, his energy – his fucking life-force, whatever the fuck you want to call it - everything emptied and drained, and he knows that it was Sam, emptying him, draining him like a battery, using him to free the both of them.

Sam scrabbles away from him on his hands and knees, storming to his feet and lurching, bounding, throwing himself, all his weight, at the demon, the two of them falling, tumbling to the floor in a thud of limbs and punches and flailing legs and Sam whaling on the demon like he’s lost his fucking mind, screaming through shredded vocal cords: _“You’re gonna fuckin’ pay! You fuckin’ bastard, you’re gonna pay!”_

“Sam?” he croaks, “Sam? _Sammy_!” And that’s a scream because Sam might be fucking deranged and he might’ve just broken them free of the ropes and the chairs with just the power of his goddamn mind, but Sam’s only human and the demon’s getting the better of him, forcing him to the ground and curling those big strong hands – Dad’s big strong hands – around Sam’s long, stupidly fragile looking neck.

He surges to his feet, adrenalin soaring, pumping, eyes skating around hopelessly, helplessly, tumbling over the limp, still form of Dean, of the demon hunched over Sam, choking the life out of him, and wait…

What’s that?

The Colt.

Lying innocent and cold and forgotten on the table by the window, starlight twinkling off its barrel.

He dives, snaps it up, fingers slotting around the butt, curling over the trigger like his hand is made for it, and ain’t that the goddamn truth, his hand has been made for every single firearm he’s ever held, ever since the age of six when Dad first curled his small fingers around a gun, saying with that proud look on his face: _You’re a natural, son, got a true aim on you_ … Telling Sam and Dean to crowd close ‘cause _you two could learn a thing from your little brother._

The memory of Dad’s voice fades away until all he can hear is the hideous, gurgling choking of Sam fighting for breath, for his life, and all he can see is the deranged, inhuman glow of the demon’s yellow eyes, the fucking demon – the motherfucker that’s stolen Dad and tortured Dean - and its hard relentless fingers locked around his brother’s neck.

The beating of his brain and the slamming of his heart speed up and he knows that this is it, it’s up to him. Dean and Sam and Dad are all out, he’s the last man standing and he has to do it, he has to step up, be a motherfucking Winchester and save their family. He has to do what Dad would do…

He takes a breath, points the gun, and pulls the trigger.

 

 

 

**********************************************

 

 

For a long time, Sam’s sure that he’s been shot, that he’s dead. The last thing he was aware of was a gunshot, and if there’s one sound he knows really fucking well, then that’s a gunshot. He is Sam Winchester and he was raised on the sound of gunfire in his ears and the feel of gunmetal in his hands.

He blinks; his neck and throat are throbbing like distinct entities, the pain so vivid that he can hear it, the air being forced through his lungs like a leak in an air mattress. He raises his hand tentatively to his throat, fingers trembling as they graze his skin. He winces out loud, the skin of his throat and neck feels like it’s been peeled away and exposed, chafed raw, like that time he slipped down the 20ft rope when they were breaking into a museum to steal a cursed artifact, the heavy, sodden rope fibers taking away the outer layer of the skin on his palms.

He scans the dark cabin, trying to locate his brothers, figure out what the gunshot was and where it came from. His eyes roll over a human shape, and he stills, a burst of fear holding him momentarily frozen in place.

Dean. He’d recognize that shape anywhere.

He scrambles to his hands and knees, palms scraping against the splintered floor as he crawls painstakingly towards his brother’s prostrate body, the breath rattling through his lungs, burning against his throat like he’s chugging gasoline.

He rolls Dean onto his back, one hand on his pulse point, other against his slack mouth, and Jesus, thank God again, he’s breathing, soft puff of air against his palm and pulse weak but steady under his fingertips.

“Dean?” he whispers, the words scraping at his raw, throbbing throat.

Dean doesn’t stir. Unconscious, but alive, breathing, and that’s… okay, he can work with that. They can get Dean to hospital, figure shit out, and it will be okay, Dean will be okay.

He lets out a long, relieved breath, head swimming and throat stinging as he sits back on his haunches. He looks around again, searching out his younger brothers, eyes dilating and breath catching when he spots the Colt lying innocent and discarded in the middle of the floor.

A low, keening sound hits him and he blinks rapidly, confusedly, finally seeing the hunched, darkened shape of Ross, slumped against one wall of the cabin, face hidden in the shadows, and Dad – God, Dad – sprawled motionless across his lap.

Sam gulps, gets unsteadily to his feet, and quickly crosses the floor to kneel down in front of Ross and Dad. Ross’s face is hidden, his body curled over Dad, face against Dad’s big familiar overcoat, he’s trembling, shaking, spine hitching and convulsing through thick, wracked, silent sobs.

Sam swallows, feels the blur of tears in his eyes as he reaches out a hand, places it on Ross’s shoulder, squeezes tentatively.

Ross’s head jerks up; his face is unrecognizable, snot and tears and red ugliness, smears of blood over his cheeks and chin, a blur of colors and grief.

Sam freezes, stares back at his brother, unable to shape the words, ask the question. It’s all useless anyway, because he can see it now, he can feel it, he knows that Dad is dead.

Dad is dead.

The words don’t really compute, they bash against the outside of his mind, as if his brain’s incapable of letting them get inside.

Dad is dead.

He swallows again, the burning in his throat like vinegar in a cut every time, the tears are beginning to break free and roll down his cheeks despite himself, his body is miles ahead of his brain, his body is already telling him that this is what you do when your Dad is dead.

“I killed him,” Ross whimpers. “Sammy, I killed him. It was me, I shot him, Sammy. I killed him… Oh God, I did it… I –“ he breaks off, body wracked by another lurch of grief, his face crumpling and creasing up like an old, torn-down poster. He leans forward, clutches at Sam’s jacket, “Sammy, I… I killed Dad.”

“Shush, no, that’s – you were just doing what you had to,” Sam stammers, the words scraping as he forces them out of his raw, enflamed throat.

Oh God, shit, he can’t handle this, he needs Dean, he wants Dean. Dean would know what to do, Dean would say the right thing, Dean would know how to comfort Ross.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Ross wails, “no, I killed him! I killed Dad! What are we gonna do now?”

“Hey, hey, shush, it’s okay,” he croaks uselessly. He leans in, raises his hands to Ross’s hot wet face, cradling it between his big palms, fingers slippery against the tears and snot and sweaty, clammy skin.

Ross hacks out a breath, grabs onto the back of Sam’s skull, and pulls him into a kiss.

It’s slippery and slimy and disgusting. The two of them are both crying, or maybe it’s just Ross’s tears smearing gummily over Sam’s cheeks as his little brother slops kisses over Sam’s mouth and teeth, his nose and chin, incoherent and messy, his hard capable fingers fisting urgently into Sam’s hair, grabbing and pulling at him so hard that it fucking hurts, every struggled out breath a wracked pain as he tries to breathe through Ross’s onslaught, through his own damaged esophagus.

For a few seconds, Sam tries to kiss Ross back, understanding somewhere at the still functioning part of his brain that this is what Ross wants, what he needs. His brave, smart-ass little brother reduced to a trembling, needy child grasping and clawing at him, and Jesus Christ, Dad’s body is still lying across Ross’s lap, right there between the two of them, and that’s… God, Sam doesn’t have words for what that is, for how fucked up and wrong and cataclysmic that is.

He wrenches out of his brother’s grasp and pants painfully for breath, his hands falling self-consciously from Ross’s face and landing on Dad’s chest: his big, thick overcoat, his bloodstained shirt. He flinches, distantly aware the sticky red goop of blood on his skin – Dad’s blood – and he jerks backwards, scalding tears burning at his eyes, as he slowly forces himself to look down, to look at his father. His dead father.

Dad’s face is slack, utterly expressionless and maybe even peaceful, but Sam can’t tell, though, honestly, when in his life has he ever been able to read Dad? Dad is as distant and closed-off and unreachable now as he always was in life. Dad was the omnipotent presence that Sam, however hard he used to try, never seemed to penetrate, never seemed to understand, and that never understood Sam back. He’d given up years before on trying to reach Dad, though he couldn’t say when he’d completely given up, maybe it was as long ago as that morning just before Christmas when he’d woken up to that boy in his bed that looked just like him, or maybe it was even before then, on one of those many occasions Dad left him to his big brother’s care? He knows he was a disappointment to Dad, the imperfect, recalcitrant soldier to Dean’s perfect, eager-to-please lieutenant, the least favorite child to Ross’s favorite. The middle-child, he thinks with a sudden surge of bitterness, remembering Becky years ago at Stanford, laughing and smiling at him, affection in her voice as she joked: _“you’re such a middle-child, Sam…”_

He’s never going to get a chance now to reconnect with Dad. To prove to Dad that he’s a true Winchester, that he’s a great hunter, that he’s so much more than Dad always thought he was, that he’s worthy…

A wave of grief coils up in his chest and he drops his head into his hands, palms slipping against his slimy, tear-streaked cheeks.

“It’s not okay, Sammy, it’s not okay, I killed him, I shot him, I did it…”

He can still hear Ross babbling hysterically in the background and he tries to force the sounds out. He can’t cope with that right now, can’t cope with Ross, with his endless fucking neediness and typically selfish grief – the demon was right about that – right about Ross. Dean is the only one who can deal with Ross right now.

Oh God, Dean, shit, they have to save Dean.

“Sammy, I don’t know what to do, what are we gonna do?” Ross is still not shutting up.

Sam jerks his head up, clamps his hand down forcefully on Ross’s shoulder, squeezes hard: “We gotta take Dean to the hospital. You gotta help me carry him to the car. Can you do that?”

It’s obviously the right thing to say, because Ross licks his lips, his eyelashes fluttering as he starts to nod his head, the old training, (Dad’s training), the action! first! mentality mixing with their overpowering urge to save their big brother taking over as Ross gets to his feet, gently, reverently lowering their Dad back to the floor. Sam pulls away from him, crosses the floor quickly back towards Dean, and hoists him carefully, up onto one shoulder. He glances back over at Ross; his younger brother is still staring down at Dad, hesitating, fingers locked around Dad’s collar, eyes riveted to Dad’s face.

“Ross!” he hisses. Ross’s head jerks up, eyes going wide and frightened. “Help me!”

Ross gulps, the ripple of his throat visible even from this distance and he crosses quickly towards them, the instinct to obey orders as automatic as ever. He takes Dean’s other side, and together they stagger out the cabin and back into the night, Sam carefully, deliberately, not looking back at his dad’s body as they push the door shut behind them.

 

 

 

 

Dean gets whisked away as soon as they arrive back at the ER, abrupt, barked words about internal injuries and internal bleeding and he’s on a gurney being wheeled at a breakneck ER-esque pace through the double doors, hospital staff charging after him.

Sam takes a seat next to Ross, feeling his brother trembling through their pressed together thighs, though it could just as easily be him, his own exhausted, wrung-out body rebelling at last and giving into muscle tremors and endless anxiety. Ross is uncharacteristically silent and catatonic beside him, barely moving as his eyes stay rooted to his clasped hands. But then, Dad is dead, there is no precedent for this. And Sam really, really needs to get to grips with it – Dad is dead – the reality behind the words still refusing to penetrate his uncooperative, exhausted brain. Dad is dead.

He’s managed to piece together what happened in the cabin, he can remember the demon over him, on top of him, its cruel, thick fingers (Dad’s fingers) digging into his neck, cutting off his air supply, and he knows that if Ross hadn’t done what he did, then he wouldn’t be there right now. Ross saved his life. Hell, Ross probably saved Dean’s life too, and his own, because there was no way, the sonofabitch was going to stop there. It would’ve killed all three of them.

He gets to his feet with a sigh, Ross twitches beside him, but other than that, doesn’t say anything, barely seeming to notice.

“I’m gonna call Bobby,” Sam tells him, “ask him to get the car. And, uh, Dad…” he swallows over the word so it’s barely audible, but he can tell that Ross had heard and understood by his full-body, involuntary flinch.

He walks slowly, tiredly, down the hall towards the phone area. This is not a call he is anxious to make, but they have to do something. As far as he knows, fuck, as far as he hopes, the Impala is still resting in its half wrecked state, just off the highway, where Ross and the demon crashed it. They have to do something about that before the police impound it or someone steals it. When Dean wakes up, he’s going to need to know that his car is okay, Sam’s already got to explain to him that his beloved father is dead; he doesn’t think that he’s capable of explaining that his baby is no more either.

And then there’s Dad’s body.

He takes a deep breath and dials Bobby’s number.

Bobby doesn’t say anything, just asks for the exact location and promises to get his tow-truck out straight away. Truthfully, Sam has no idea how Bobby’s going to manage carrying Dad’s big, heavy body on his own, but the old guy seems sure that he’ll be able to deal with it, that it won’t be a problem, so Sam doesn’t think about it, pushes the thoughts, the reality of Dad – Dad’s body – Dad’s corpse – to the back of his brain, and concentrates on the here and now.

After he hangs up, he makes his way to the cafeteria, feeling unable to cope with Ross just yet. Nothing’s open, but the vending machines are still alight, still chugging away in the corner of the room next to the plastic waiting chairs. He gets himself some water, knowing that his poor damaged throat is not ready for coffee just yet. He feels suddenly really fucking hungry and thinks distractedly that he probably hasn’t eaten for nearly two days. It’s not the longest he’s gone without food, but he’s really fucking hungry. He gets a Mars bar and devours that in a few bites, his mouth working automatically, teeth chomping at the thick, gloopy filling, throat on fire as he forces it down in small bites with big mouthfuls of water. He gets a couple extra candy bars for Ross, and a cup of vending machine coffee, and he trudges back towards the waiting area, but Ross is nowhere to be seen.

Dean’s still in surgery, no new news, so he waits for half an hour, and sips cautiously at the coffee while he waits for Ross to get back from wherever he’s gone – the bathroom, outside for a cigarette, the phone, though who he’s going to phone right now, Sam has no fucking clue. After thirty minutes, he stows the extra candy bars in his jacket and goes out into the designated area to call Ross on his cell phone. There’s no answer on Ross’s phone, the call switching directly to voicemail.

He goes back to wait.

Three hours later and Ross still hasn’t returned. Sam tries not to worry, after all, it’s only been three hours, and the demon, well, he’s dead, that fact is as irrevocable and certain than anything in his life. The demon is dead, it can’t come after them anymore, Ross killed it.

Ross could’ve just gone to explore the hospital, wander around outside, buy a packet of cigarettes; fuck, even perhaps for a nap in the backseat of their stolen car. He’s a grown boy, he can look after himself. Except…

He really can’t look after himself. And he definitely can't right now. He's in no fit state, he's in shock, and if anything were to happen to him…

Then, he guesses, that at least he would end up at this fucking hospital. At least Sam would be informed.

He bites his lip and goes to try Ross’s cell again. Voicemail.

He’s on his feet, wondering if he has time to slip down to the car just to check that Ross isn’t in fact napping on the back seat, when Dean’s doctor emerges from the OR area. Sam surges to his feet and collars the guy as he removes his mask and gloves.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s going to live,” the guy says flatly. “We were able to repair the damage to his internal organs. We had to give him a transfusion, there was some internal bleeding, but he will be okay. Fortunately, there was no damage to his brain and no oxygen deprivation which can occur in these kinds of traumas.”

Sam pales, his limbs wooly and heavy beneath him, he hadn’t realized, he’d had no fucking idea that it was that bad… lying in that cabin, Dean had just been unconscious, no different from how he'd looked the first time they’d rescued him from the demon, when he’d been drugged, he’d never thought -

“He needs a lot of rest,” the doctor continues. “We’re going to keep him sedated for a couple of days, let his body repair itself before we bring him back to the land of the living.” He breaks off and peers at Sam closely, his eyes measured and professional. “You should have someone dress those bruises,” he says, in the same flat monotone.

Sam raises his hand self-consciously to his throat, wincing when his fingertips brush the raw, damaged skin. “I, uh, it’s not so bad.”

The doctor ignores him, waves one of his looming cohorts over and directs them to see to Sam, and Sam finds himself forced into an empty triage room despite his fruitless protests. A doctor dresses and bandages his neck, and tells him that Dean's doctor - evidently the guy in charge around here - has ordered specifically that Sam will not be permitted to see Dean until he’s been properly treated. So Sam submits to the inevitable, taking the pills they force on him, and feeling vaguely grateful when the throbbing pain starts to dim away, his mind getting foggy and thick as his body forces him to remember just how fucking long it’s been since he last slept.

They let him into Dean’s room, and one of the nurses, on seeing his confused, exhausted state, wheels in a spare cot and lets him crash out on it. He finally drifts off to sleep to the sound of the machines rigged up to Dean's body, the steady beep reaffirming his brother's heartbeat.

 

 

 

He wakes up the next morning to see the friendly nurse from the previous night injecting something into Dean's drip. He watches her foggily, his sleep-deprived eyes hazy and filmy as he blinks away the dry, scratchy flakes of sleep. She smiles at him and says good morning as she leaves the room, scrubs swishing in a reassuring, competent way. Sam rolls off the cot and pads in his socked feet to the edge of Dean’s bed. His brother’s face is still and slack and pale, but a quick glance at the machines, at his chest rising and falling assure him that Dean is okay, and he remembers the doctor’s words from the night before, they’re sedating him on purpose, letting his body repair itself before they wake him up again. This is all good. It’s what Dean needs. He brushes his fingertips over Dean’s bristly cheek, and traces his finger down over the neck of the thin cotton gown, down his bare arms. He touches the back of Dean’s hand gently, the skin threaded through with its flower arrangement of tubes and drips and fluids.

He sighs and sinks to the chair beside Dean’s bed, letting his head drop into his hands.

Ross.

He jerks his head back up at the thought of his younger brother, feeling suddenly wide awake and cursing himself.

Ross – where is Ross?

He fumbles to his feet and gathers up his jacket, reaching into his pocket for his phone. It’s switched off of course; he wasn’t permitted to keep it on so close to all this equipment. He swears under his breath, stuffs his feet into his boots, grabs up his phone and stalks quickly into the waiting area.

He has no missed calls, just one new text message from Bobby, just four words in capitals: DON’T WORRY. GOT THEM. He shivers, dropping the phone back into his pocket when he remembers what that message really means: Bobby’s got the car, and he’s got Dad. He swallows, blinking back a sudden wave of grief in his gut, his chest beginning to ache again. He glances back at Dean’s room and feels his eyes start to blur over, when Dean wakes up, he’s got to tell him. He has no idea how he’s going to tell him.

But that’s not important right now, Dean’s not going to wake up for at least another day, the urgent thing now is to find Ross.

He dials Ross’s number and really does swear out loud when it switches to voicemail.

The receptionist looks at him as if he’s crazy as he tries to describe his brother, stumbling over the words: “Looks just like me, but shorter, like 6’2, dark hair and brown eyes and he was wearing a blue shirt and ripped jeans…” He trails off, stomach cramping with a dread sense of foreboding. What the hell will he tell Dean? Dean will never forgive him if he’s lost Ross on his watch.

Oh, God. He swallows, ducks his head, feeling the useless, self-pitying tears start to swell up.

“Look, it’s my brother, please, I just need to know – who was working last night between 6 and 7, he was sitting here with me, and he just – God, I don’t know where he went…”

“Are you Sam?”

Sam spins around; one of the nurses is regarding him with frank interest. She’s obviously just about to start or finish her shift because she’s dressed in her coat, bag slung over one shoulder.

“Yes!” he busts out, “Yes, that’s me! What – did you see him last night? My brother? Did you see Ross?”

She comes forward, reaches into her purse to take out a crumpled envelope, smoothing it between her fingers before she holds it out to him. “Here,” she says calmly. “I was told to give this to someone called Sam who was freakishly tall with weird, froofy hair and bandages on his throat. I’m guessing that’s you.”

Sam nods and gulps, because yes – that description – so Ross. He wrenches his gaze from her face to the envelope she’s holding out. It’s got SAM written on it in Ross’s terrible handwriting and is obviously some motel stationery that Ross must’ve kept stuffed in his pocket or retrieved from somewhere, who the hell knows with Ross.

He takes it from her hand with a long breath, eyes going wide as he meets her gaze. “Thanks,” he breathes.

“That’s okay,” she says with a smile. “I should’ve given it to you earlier, but he gave me it while you were being treated and I didn’t want to disturb you, and then, well, my shift finished. Luckily I’m doing a double today so I came in early, huh?”

Sam nods weakly and turns away to read the note.

_Dear Sammy,_

_Sorry for leaving you a note, I know it’s really emo and lame but if I didn’t say or write anything then you and Dean will think that I’ve been kidnapped again and that would suck. Anyway, I’m leaving. I don’t know where I’m going to go. Fuck it, maybe I'll go to Disneyworld, I always wanted to go there when we were kids._

_Don’t try to follow me and don’t try to call me, I’ve already dumped my phone and I will call you when I'm ready, not like I don't know your number, unless you change it, so don't do that._

_Don’t worry about me, I can look after myself, I’m not completely useless on my own like you both think. Take care of Dean, though I don’t need to tell you that, but maybe you should leave off fucking him until he’s all properly healed._

_Tell Dean I’m really fucking sorry._

_Ross._

He folds the note up carefully and slides it into the back pocket of his jeans, then he walks back into Dean’s room and waits for his brother to wake up.

 

[Next Chapter](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/31327.html)


	20. Chapter 20

_\- Dean, Ross is your brother. You treat him exactly as you would Sammy. If I’m not around then you’re in charge and you look out for him. You’re the oldest, Dean, and you look out for both your brothers. Do you hear me? I’m counting on you for this._

Dean blinks the sweat out of his eyes and raises his arm to wipe off his forehead. It’s surprisingly hot for May and this spot right here – the middle of Bobby’s yard with its skeletons of former cars and monsters of scrap metal – is pretty much the apex, the sunlight shining and bouncing off the metallic surfaces, flooding over his skin and burning against the back of his neck. He rolls his shoulders irritably, feeling his shirt, stiff with sweat, chafe against his slippery skin, the beads of moisture roll stickily down his back and pool in the dip above his ass and under his arms.

_\- Hey, Ross, kiddo, c’mere. C’mon, we’re gonna watch Thundercats._

_\- What’s Thundercats?_

_\- You’ve never seen Thundercats?_

_\- The other place didn’t have a TV._

_\- Oh, well we have a TV now, so come watch, it’s Sammy’s favorite show._

He circles the damaged chassis of his baby, stooping to pick up a socket wrench from the box of tools by the trunk. It hurts to see her like this, to see her crumpled fender, smashed lights and dented panels. He’s going to have to strip them all off, start anew, rebuild her from scratch. Still, it’s all worth it, it’s totally worth it. She’s worth it.

_\- Look, this dude with the crazy muscles, he’s called Lion-O, and he’s like the main guy. He’s supposed to be all brave and handsome and awesome, but he’s kinda dumb. And that stupid little dog thing – that’s Snarf – he’s always hanging around, being, like, seriously annoying. He’s totally Sammy’s favorite character._

_\- What? No he’s not, Dean! Quit being a jerk!_

The memory is still clear: three weeks after Ross had entered their family, two days before Dean’s twelfth birthday, and Dad was away on a hunting trip, checking out some spirit sightings in Nebraska. Ross spent the entire first day pining, sitting quietly in a chair by the window, a wistful look in his round brown eyes and the comic Dean had given him lying unread in his lap. It made Dean’s chest hurt to watch him. He and Sammy had gotten used to Dad’s absences over the years; Dad had been leaving the two of them alone for days at a time since Dean was eight years old, and Dean’d conditioned himself to push aside the endless nagging worries about Dad, about Dad not making it back this time, about Dad running into some bad luck and the two of them – three of them now – ending up orphaned and abandoned. It had always been his responsibility to look after Sam, to protect Sam from the reality of hunting, and now, seeing the unabashed fear and confusion in Ross’s face, he realized that he would have to do the same for Ross. Hide his own fears and protect both his brothers, just like Dad had told him.

He can remember beckoning Ross over to sit with him, how Ross sat so stiffly on the couch at first, heels drumming nervously against the floor as he watched the cartoon. It took a while for Ross to relax, overcome by tiredness, slowly falling back into the stained cushions until he was curled up next to Dean, his small body hot and itchy against Dean’s side, his fingers knotted in Dean’s shirt and mouth growing a wet patch on Dean’s shoulder. Dean can remember feeling Sam’s eyes on them, wary and narrowed, lips pressed together into that characteristic Sammy frown as he tried to concentrate on his favorite show and not on the little cuckoo brother who’d stolen his spot.

Six months after that and Ross was a fully fledged Winchester, no longer the nervous, tentative presence in the corner armchair, but the quick-eyed and quick-fisted boy who fought for his place beside Dean on the couch, who curled up happily against his oldest brother to watch cartoons, ignoring the frowns and glares directed his way from Sammy’s corner. When Dad walked through the door, Ross was always the first one up, the first to shout out a joyful: “Daddy!” and leap upon his father, while Dad bent to scoop him up, pressing kisses into Ross’s dark hair, his face lit up and happy.

Dean forces the memories from his head – forces himself to concentrate on the here and now – on this – his baby – transforming her back to the beautiful classic she truly is. After all, it’s not like he has anything else to do right now, all their attempts at locating Ross have been fruitless so far, though, really, what the fuck else did they expect? Ross learned how to disappear from the best, how to steal and ditch a car, how to change a license plate and avoid a CCTV camera, Ross learned from Dad, and Dad was missing for months.

He swallows, raises his head from his distracted contemplation of his girl’s engine, and flexes his fingers, feeling the wrench slip from his sweaty grasp and fall to the ground with a dusty thud. He sighs loudly and swipes the back of his hand across his lips, blinking as he rakes his gaze over the yard again; he’s really fucking thirsty and it’s too fucking hot.

He turns his back on the car and stalks quickly out of the sun and into the garage adjacent to the house where Bobby keeps his beer fridge. The garage seems cold and dark after the blazing sunlight outside, and he blinks, pupils contracting, getting used to the relative gloom. He heads for the refrigerator and snatches up one of the beers with an appreciative groan. He drains the bottle in a couple of long, thirst-quenching pulls, savoring the ice cold liquid like heavenly nectar as it slides down his parched throat, the cool metal of the fridge door just as heavenly against his sweaty, prickly back. When he’s done, he tosses the empty bottle into the trash can, and heads back outside.

He works steadily for what feels like a long time, though he has no idea of exactly how long. He makes good progress, ignoring the sun as it pinkens the back of his neck and his forearms, and ignoring his own stupid brain, the memories that keep cropping up to torment him. Ross crawling into bed with him after a nightmare, Ross ordering pancakes and sausage with a side order of sausage, Ross stealing his cigarettes, mouth in a fuck-you gleeful twist, Ross carving his initials alongside Dean’s and Sam’s on the tree at the bottom of Bobby’s yard, small face upturned, eyes wide and anxious: _Did I do it right, Dean?_ Ross in the men’s room, his fingers glistening with Dean’s spunk: _Did I do it right, Dean?_

The sound of an engine yanks him from his memories, and he gets stiffly to his feet. The engine is loud, louder than Bobby’s old truck, and vaguely familiar. He raises his hand to shield his eyes and squints out across Bobby’s yard at the new arrival.

It’s Dad’s truck.

He swallows and drops his arm, hand swinging uselessly next to his side. Dad’s truck. He had no idea Bobby had even located it, never mind gotten someone to drive it all the way here. He watches Bobby march out of the house, adjusting the tilt on his baseball cap as he strides up to greet the driver. It’s not someone Dean knows, though evidently Bobby does, judging by the backslaps and raised gruff voices. Dean watches the guy hand over some paperwork and the keys, then follow Bobby back inside the house.

All things considered, Dad’s truck looks to be in pretty good shape, unlike his poor baby. Sure, it’s dirty; rusty in some parts, but taking into account its age and mileage, it ain’t too shabby. So, perhaps Bobby’s gonna sell it? Or even use it himself? It’s gotta have a few years left in it, not ready for the scrap heap yet. And it isn’t even that old, not like the Impala, Dad had gotten it – seven years, eight years ago? Sam and Ross had been in high school at the time – he can remember that, remember the day Dad’d handed over the keys to the Impala to him, the day he’d bought that truck.

The first trip Dean’d made in his baby as her official owner had been to his brothers’ high school; he’d parked in one of the faculty spots, posed against the fender in his shades and leather jacket while he’d waited for his brothers, imagining all the other kids’ envious looks and questions about who this hot mysterious stranger might be? He’d been ridiculously happy that day, grinned like a deranged fool when he’d seen Sam and Ross shuffling across the parking lot towards him, the two of them wearing matching confused expressions when they spotted his delighted face.

Dad never loved that truck the way Dean loves his car, hell, no one probably loves their car half so much as he loves his best girl, but over the years that truck became an extension of Dad: hearing its heavy rumbling engine meant that Dad was back and Dad was safe, seeing its huge dark fender and enormous headlights in the rear-view meant that Dad was with them and Dad would have their backs. He never rode in it much, a handful of times maybe, that was always Ross’s place. But the last time he rode in it –

_When this is over, I want you gone. You have to leave... You think you love him, Dean, you think this is what he wants, but the two of you are sick. You’re damaged... I can’t have sons that do that in my family..._

That was their last conversation. His and Dad’s last real conversation. Dad ordering him to get gone, Dad telling him that he was sick, that he didn’t want him around anymore. And he’d agreed, promised Dad that he’d leave, that he’d stay away from Ross, give up Sam.

He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, blinking at the harsh sunlight as he turns back to his baby, putting Dad’s truck behind him, out of sight. He has no intention of keeping that promise to Dad. Dad is dead and Ross is missing and Sam is all he has left. He’s not going to leave Sam now, he needs Sam, and more importantly, Sam needs him.

He’s going to disobey Dad’s last order. The thought gives him a little thrill, a mild spark of rebellion that’s entirely new to him. He’s never disobeyed Dad before, always been the good dutiful son, always done what Dad told him.

_And how has that worked out for you, Dean?_

The thought rises unbidden to his mind, the voice in his head sounding unmistakably like Sam’s -

“Dean! Dean!”

He blinks, clears his mind as he jerks his head up to see Sam jogging towards him, his crazy hair flying in a halo around his face, an exuberant and slightly deranged grin on his face.

“Dean! I got a text from Ross! Here, look!”

He pulls his phone out his pocket and thrusts it under Dean’s nose. Dean takes it from him, tilting the screen and cupping his hand so he can read the words without the sun’s glare. _SAMMY YOU BITCH STOP WORRYING ABOUT ME AND START HEALING DEAN WITH YOUR MAGIC COCK YOU KNOW YOU TOTALLY WANT TO I WILL CALL WHEN I AM READY R”_

Jesus, so freaking typical, the smart-ass little shit. But, yeah, he’s fighting a grin as he stares at the mass of unpunctuated capital letters because that – that is undeniably and most definitely Ross – Ross with a new phone. He’s all about mocking Dean for his tech-tardiness, but Ross totally sucks with new phones, can never figure out the predictive text or the smallcaps-bigcaps button, never mind the freaking punctuation.

Sam’s blabbering excitedly, “I must’ve alerted him when I traced that Ford outta Akron. S’only thing I can think of. But, wow, you know, I’m kinda impressed, never woulda thought Ross would know how to set up a system of alerts — ”

“Dude, c’mon, he learned from the best,” he interrupts. He turns his face, giving Sam his best shit-eating grin. “So, magic cock, huh?”

Sam shakes his head and huffs out a breath, his face reddening. “Little punk.” But he’s still smiling, those dimples etched into his cheeks, visible relief written into every pore in his face.

Dean hands the phone back to Sam, their fingers brushing. Sam exhales, a long drawn out breath and folds his fingers around Dean’s, squeezes gently. “Least we know he’s okay,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. He swallows back the wave of grief and relief threatening to spill over, the inevitable pathetic crying jag. Ross is okay. That’s what matters here. Ross is okay. He’s made contact in inimitable Ross fashion, and just as with the letter he’d left behind at the hospital, they won’t be able to show this latest missive to Bobby.

Sam slides his phone back into his pocket and places one hand on the curve of Dean’s shoulder, his demeanor changing as his voice drops, getting all low and concerned. “It’s after two, dude. You should come inside, s’time for your meds.”

He thinks about protesting for a second, telling Sam to quit worrying and hovering for one freaking minute. Sam’s been doing a lot of hovering and worrying and looming over the past few days, though, to give him some credit, thankfully Sam has left him alone for most of today - which must’ve taken some freakish restraint on Sammy’s part, but now it seems that the time for hovering and worrying and looming is back.

He sighs, turning to wipe off his hands on an oily rug. “Yeah, fine.”

Sam looks surprised by his easy acceptance, but he grins once more and slides one arm possessively around Dean’s shoulders as they make their way back towards the house, and Dean doesn’t have the heart, or the inclination, to push him away.

Bobby’s visitor is leaving just as they enter the kitchen, the keys to one of Bobby’s cars in one hand. He nods to Sam and Dean on his way out, though he doesn’t bother to introduce himself. Dean watches him leave, vaguely sure that he’s seen the guy’s face around somewhere before – that maybe he’s hunted with Dad at some time in the past. There were a lot of hunters that Dad worked with over the years that the three of them never met in person, names in Dad’s journal that he can’t put faces to.

“Dean, here. Take it.”

He turns back towards Sam’s voice. Sam’s holding out the small bottle of antibiotics, and Dean takes it with a sigh, keeping his gaze deliberately locked on Sam as he swallows down a pill. Sam nods when he’s done, satisfied, and takes a seat at the table.

“I’m makin’ grilled cheese,” Bobby announces. “You two knuckleheads want some?”

The three of them eat together, washing down the sandwiches with beers, the conversation non-existent as they eat.

“Boys, there’s something we gotta discuss,” Bobby announces once they’re finished.

For a second, the breath catches in Dean’s throat, he forces himself to swallow, eyes darting to meet Sam’s; Sam’s eyes are wide, anxious, his lip caught between his teeth. Dean drags his gaze away from his brother and raises his hand to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand while carefully avoiding Bobby’s gaze, steeling himself for the onslaught.

“What?” He hears Sam ask in a strange, cracked voice.

“Your daddy,” Bobby states succinctly.

The initial relief is enough to make Dean want to close his eyes, but he can feel Bobby’s gaze upon him, resting on his bowed head, so he swallows again, nods, unclenching his fingers from around his glass. “Okay, what about him?” he says finally.

“Dean, he’s still in my deep freeze.”

Dean snorts, his head jerking up as the vaguely hysterical noise leaves his mouth. He can’t help it – but the situation’s so seriously fucked up – like a cross between a bad black comedy and a ridiculous soap opera, their dead father in their adoptive uncle’s deep freeze, their youngest brother missing, and him and Sam –

He raises his knuckles to his mouth, trying to force back the stupid, nerve-wracked giggles. He needs to get a fucking grip. He darts a look at Sam; Sam’s eyes are still wide, like he’s forgotten how to blink.

“We can’t keep him there much longer,” Bobby adds. His voice is gruff but gentle, the matter-of-factness in that simple statement strangely comforting.

Dean clears his throat, “Ross – we, uh, Sam had a text from Ross.”

Bobby immediately transfers his attention to Sam: “Well you could’ve said something sooner!”

Sam splutters: “I, uh, well it wasn’t really anything. Just him tellin’ me to stop looking and that he was doin’ fine and would be in contact when he wanted to and not before.”

“And you’re sure that was him?”

“It was him,” Dean says.

Bobby nods, letting out a long sigh of relief. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. But that still don’t mean that we don’t gotta deal with your father.”

“What do you think we should do?” Sam asks.

Bobby runs one hand over his beard, sighing tiredly. “I think we should burn him, Sam. And soon. Either tonight or tomorrow. But it’s got to be soon.”

“But Ross –“ Dean starts to protest.

“Ross ain’t here,” Bobby interrupts. “And this has to happen today or tomorrow.” He sighs again, then his tone softens: “I’m sorry, boys, but we’re just going to have to do this without your brother.”

There’s a pause and then Sam speaks, his voice low and cracked. “Okay, yeah. You’re right. Dean, are you okay with this?”

Dean glances at his brother; Sam’s eyes are shiny again, his lips pressed together hard.

“Yeah, fine,” Dean manages eventually, because it’s not like he’s fighting this. They need to burn Dad, they can’t keep him in Bobby’s deep freeze, it’s disrespectful, it’s fucking ridiculous. Dad was a great hunter; he deserves a hunter’s funeral.

Bobby sighs loudly, his chair scraping as he gets to his feet. “Well, thank God for that.” He gathers up their plates, placing them onto the draining board before he leaves the room.

Dean watches him go, then pushes himself up from the table with a grimace. Sam immediately jumps to his feet to loom over him, face riddled with concern.

“Dean – “

“Quit it, Sam, I’m fine!”

It’s not entirely the truth. His chest is aching, a dull thudding pain that’s resonating throughout his body. But he’s finished all the painkillers that the hospital gave them and they’ve been out of Vicodin for a while. Whatever, it doesn’t matter, he can deal with the pain, he’s used to it, he’s experienced a lot worse than this, and at least if he’s off the painkillers, Sam’s not going to bitch about him drinking.

Naturally, Sam is not convinced, 'course he’s not, stubborn sonofabitch already rounding the table to hover over him, swooping in to steady his thick meaty shoulder under Dean’s own.

“Dean, c’mon, let me,” Sam says and he sounds so freaking reasonable that Dean gives in, lets Sam wind one long arm around his back and hold him up.

“You gotta be more careful,” Sam chastises him under his breath. “Your body’s been through a lot. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard – I shouldn’t’ve let you work on the car for so long. I should’ve — ”

“Sam,” he tries again, because, Jesus, he can’t deal with Sam’s guilt and pity train on top of everything else.

“No, listen to me, Dean,” Sam interrupts. His tone has gotten louder, more pleading, a slight desperate edge to it. “Look, you gotta see – Dad is dead. And Ross is gone – and fuck knows when we’re gonna see him again! That means it’s just you and me now. So, please, man, you gotta – gotta take care of yourself. You gotta be more careful. You’ve only just gotten out of the hospital. I’m not being unreasonable here.” Sam’s voice catches over the last few words, and Dean’s chest clenches.

He swallows, raises his eyes to Sam’s, and nods. “Yeah, okay. I, yeah. You’re right.”

“As always,” Sam says with a soft smile.

He leans in until his forehead presses against Dean’s, bangs prickly against Dean’s skin. Dean feels the breath catch in his chest as his brother’s hand slides up his back and into his hair, cupping his skull with his long fingers. He hasn’t noticed, but all this while he and Sam have been skirting around each other – Sam too anxious about Dean’s injuries and grief to make any approach, and himself too caught up in his own head, too preoccupied by thoughts of Ross, anxiety over where their youngest brother could be – they’ve barely touched each other since – since everything, and he hasn’t realized how much he’s been missing this, how much he’s been missing Sam.

He opens his mouth to Sam automatically, their lips brushing together, the kiss instinctive and effortless, and that’s not surprising, considering how long and how often they’ve been doing this, how familiar and easy it is. Sam makes a soft humming noise under his breath, the smack of their lips and slick of their tongues the only sounds in the silent kitchen. Dean groans as the kiss deepens, God, he loves kissing Sam, can never get enough of it. But this is Bobby’s kitchen and the old guy’s gotta be around somewhere, and he knows that if he keeps this up then he’s gonna want to take it further, and seriously, this is so not the time or place, not when they’ve got to build a fucking funeral pyre for their father. The sheer ridiculousness of the situation hits him and he bites back a laugh, instead pulling away, sucking hard on Sam’s tongue as he does, their mouths slipping apart with a slurping sound that’s almost comical in its slick loudness.

He huffs out a breath, strangled and relieved, his eyes meeting Sam’s with almost bashful self-consciousness. Sam’s watching him with his customary fascination, eyes shining, lips reddened and slick, corners of his mouth curled upwards into a knowing smile. Dean rolls his eyes, reaches out to cuff him playfully. “Bitch.”

Sam’s bark of a laugh is sudden and also relieved, any tension between them immediately defusing. “Shut up!”

“Ooh, burn,” Dean mocks.

Sam rolls his eyes at him, “C’mon, we should get out there, get this done now.”

It takes Bobby and Sam about an hour of solid work: collecting, carrying and stacking the firewood into a recognizable pyre shape, Bobby directing Sam with overbearing frowns and impatient hand gestures. Dean perches on the edge of a felled tree and watches, itching to lend a hand, but both Bobby and Sam are adamant, growling in his general direction with a _“fuckin’ stay put already, Jesus, Dean!”_ every time he makes a move to help out.

When Bobby’s happy with the size and shape of the pyre, he sends Sam to fetch something from the trunk of his car. Sam comes back with a paper bag of pungent-smelling herbs and reddened shiny eyes; Dean watches him hand the bag over to Bobby with a meaningful look, and the old guy scatters the contents over the top of the pyre, his weathered face locked into a silent, stoic mask. Dean glances at Sam again and seeing his brother’s heart-broken expression, he realizes with a slam-dunk to the gut that the herbs are not there for any supernatural or superstitious reason, but for practical reasons: they’re there to mask the smell, to mask the scent of human flesh roasting – Dad roasting.

He shivers, gooseflesh prickling along his spine, and Sam turns around, takes a step towards him, mutters: “You okay, man?”

Dean nods, not daring to blink, to look Sam in the eye.

Sam and Bobby carry Dad’s body outside, still wrapped in a bed sheet, one of Bobby’s old ones that Dean’s sure he recognizes from being a kid, sure that he’s slept on it at some point in his life, maybe even fooled around on it with Sammy.

Sam and Bobby lay Dad carefully on top of the pyre. Sam steps away, his back to Dean and his shoulders hunched. Dean watches Bobby bend to pick up the can of lighter fluid and slowly douse the wood. Bobby tosses the empty can aside and takes a lighter from his pocket, lighting the end of one dry thin stick of firewood with a quick flick of his fingers.

Sam turns his head, looking over his shoulder at Dean. His eyes are watery, the tears starting to spill over, his mouth a malleable scrunched-up shape. Dean gets up stiffly from his sitting place and falls into place beside his brother, standing close enough for their shoulders to brush together. He feels Sam’s exhalation of relief, the tension draining some from his own body as Sam’s hand grabs onto his own, fingers curling and entwining. Together, shoulder to shoulder and hand in hand, they watch Bobby thrust the dry burning stick to the edges of the wood, flames whooshing alive with startling and breathtaking speed, as quickly as a special effect on a TV show.

Sam makes a sound in the back of his throat, a small, hurt, pleading sound and Dean feels his chest ache, his body shift even closer towards his brother; Sam sags against him, head lowering until it’s resting on Dean’s shoulder. Dean steadies himself under his brother’s weight and places one arm around Sam’s waist until they’re completely lined up, head to toe, squashed into each other’s bodylines. He can hear Sam crying over the crackling of the wood, feel his chest hitch, see the dirty, greasy tears rolling down his brother’s cheeks from the corner of his eye. He tightens his hold on his brother, turning his head so his mouth presses into Sam’s messy dark hair. His own eyes are watering, a mixture of the sharp herby-smelling smoke and his own stupid emotions. He can feel Bobby watching them, and knows the exact expression the old guy must be wearing: a wary, careful blankness masking disapproval. It’s the same way Bobby’s looked at them for years, and Dean’s pretty fucking sure that Bobby knows exactly how the land lies between him and Sammy, and that Bobby has known for years, but right at this moment, he doesn’t give a shit.

 

***********************************

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/sonofabiscuit77/pic/00031yy2/)

 

They drink a toast to Dad when it’s over, Bobby silently leading them into the kitchen when the flames have died away and the embers just a faint orange-red glow.

Bobby gestures for them to take a seat at the kitchen table and Dean does so gratefully. His body aches, his head aches, the faraway pounding of a stress headache vibrating against the corners of his brain.

“I’ve been saving this,” Bobby announces gruffly, depositing an unopened bottle of Johnny Walker Blue onto the table in front of them. “Seems like a good time to break it out.”

Dean huffs out a long breath and raises his eyes to his brother. Sam’s holding his head in his hands, long fingers spread-eagled over his face, his skin pale. Dean shifts in his seat, jogging Sam’s leg with one foot, Sam looks up, his eyes red and watery as they meet Dean’s; he smiles half-heartedly. “Hey, at least it’s over, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees quietly.

Bobby pours them three generous measures in silence. They raise their glasses together, Dean blinking as his eyes meet Sam’s across the table.

“To Dad,” he says finally.

“To Dad,” Sam repeats.

“To John Winchester, most paranoid and most stubborn sonofabitch I ever had the pleasure of working with,” Bobby finishes.

Sam huffs out a laugh and Dean feels his mouth curl up as he drains the glass, lips smacking over the alcohol with relish, tension broken at last. God, but it makes a nice fucking change to drink something that doesn’t feel like it’s about to rip his liver apart as it slides down his gullet.

Bobby refills their glasses and they drink in silence for a couple of minutes.

“So, uh, where d’you think he is?” Sam says, breaking the silence.

“Huh?” Dean blinks at him.

“Dad,” Sam clarifies. “I mean, we know there’s a hell, right? Like, we know that for sure. Makes sense that there’s a heaven too.”

“I guess.” Dean frowns, glancing at Bobby. He’s really not prepared for this conversation. Dad is dead – that’s what matters – Dad is dead and he’s not coming back. And it’s better that way, thinking of all the supernatural pieces of crap they’ve dealt with over the years: spirits, ghosts, zombies, revenants, vampires, demons… Dad is definitely better off dead.

“Bobby?” Sam prompts.

“Jesus, boy, I ain’t nowhere near drunk enough for this conversation.”

“C’mon,” Sam perseveres, “you must have some idea. I mean – you’re, like, an expert on demons and hell – you must have some theory about the after-life.”

Dean shakes his head and presses his lips together. Bobby should know better than trying to deflect Sam when he’s in this kinda mood, no one can deflect Sam when he’s like this. Sam is as stubborn as Dad, and Sam always gets an answer when he really wants one.

There’s a long pause then Bobby sighs, raises one hand to his chin, running it over his greasy beard. “Sam, I’m no expert, and I couldn’t tell you whether there actually is a God up there or there ain’t. But I think – I think John got what he wanted. He destroyed the demon and he got to reunite with your mom. I think he died a happy man, and I think that wherever he is now – he’s with Mary. Y’all should just remember that –“ he trails off, clearing his throat and reaching for a refill, avoiding both their eyes.

Dean blinks; he can feel the hot swell of tears behind his eyes and finally, for the first time since the hospital, he feels like he’s letting go of something. Bobby’s right, Dad is at peace. He’s fulfilled his life’s ambition, he’s gotten his revenge, killed that sonofabitch who destroyed their mom and ruined their lives. He’s made the world a better place, one monster after another, he’s made a difference, and he died knowing that he’d won. Maybe, Dad would’ve preferred for it to have gone down differently – to have spared his favorite son from having to take that killer shot – to not have the ignominy of being possessed by the very thing he was trying to destroy. But they won – a Winchester Win.

He can hear Sam in the background, asking Bobby questions like he’s eight years old again, that inquisitive little kid that just wouldn’t quit: “Bobby, tell us about the first time you met Dad?”

Dean’s heard this story before, but he doesn’t mind hearing it again. Bobby’s looking amused, shaking his head, his mouth twitching into an ironic smile. “You sure you wanna hear this story, boys? ‘Cause it ain’t pretty. Your old man – he was a tough sonofabitch even then – though, he had no fuckin’ clue what he was doin’. Damned amateur. Nearly got me killed, I had to teach him everything. ‘Cept for shooting, your dad was always a great shot. A natural with a firearm, just like your brother.”

They talk for a while, exchanging reminiscences of Dad, of successful hunts, of holidays spent at Bobby’s place, that summer the three of them stayed with Bobby for two months while Dad was off hunting those freaking kelpies, that time while Sam was at college when Bobby ran Dad off his property with his shotgun —

Bobby leaves them after an hour. He walks quietly away, murmuring about some work that needs to be done.

Dean gets to his feet, picks up the half-full bottle of whisky and suggests that they head outside, find some old wreck to hang out in. They pick the old Chevy convertible, as if by mutual consent, sliding into the front seat together, faces upturned towards the starry night sky, passing the bottle between them. The car looks like it used to be a classy ride, a garish British Racing Green color that’s faded to a washed-out khaki now. Still, the upholstery’s pretty good, that soft, slick slide of real leather, so good in fact that Dean’s already considering stealing it for his baby.

Dean takes a long swig from the bottle; he’s feeling pleasantly buzzed, the tension headache retreating under the onslaught of quality whiskey. He probably shouldn’t be drinking this much and he’s going to regret it in the morning, but at this moment, he doesn’t care; he totally doesn’t give a shit. He wants to sit out here with Sammy, drink to their father’s memory, and get shit-faced.

Sam takes a packet of cigarettes out his jeans pocket and lights one up; he flashes Dean an arrogant smile, then tilting his head back, he attempts to blow a smoke ring up into the sky.

“Lame,” Dean comments. “Give me one and I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“Nope,” says Sam, still with that goddamned smirk. “You’re not smoking while your lungs are still healing.”

“God, you’re such a freakin’ killjoy.”

“And you’re a child. Least you act like it. Hell, think about it, man, this could be the perfect opportunity to quit.”

“Dude, I don’t want to quit!” Dean protests.

“It’ll kill you.”

“Seriously? C’mon, Sammy, you gotta do better than that!”

Sam huffs out a laugh and tilts his head Dean’s way, giving him a lazy smile, lips parting around his cigarette, smoke pluming gently from the side of his mouth.

Dean scoffs and leans to pry the cigarette from Sam’s lips, the brush of his fingers against Sam’s moist mouth making his skin tingle. Sam blinks and begins to protest as Dean tosses the smoking butt out of the car, but Dean shuts him up with a look.

“Meh, whatever,” Sam says with a shrug, “I was done with it anyway.”

“Good, ‘cause if I can’t smoke, then you definitely can’t,” Dean retorts.

They go silent for a moment, then Sam shifts about in his seat, hefting out one of his enormous sighs and saying: “Man I could so go for some pot right now.”

Dean turns his head to look at him, eyebrows raised into an arc of surprise. “Seriously?”

“Dude? What?” Sam protests. He widens his eyes in this totally disingenuous and evil way, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Don'tcha think it would be kinda good to – you know – take the edge off it? Relax some, forget about everything for one freakin’ moment.” He pauses as if thinking about something and the corner of his mouth lifts up further, until he’s smirking, his eyes lazy and half-lidded when they meet Dean’s. “And I know how much you love foolin’ around when you’re high. D’you remember the last time we all got high? All three of us – in that place in Des Moines?”

Dean _can_ remember, in fact, that particular memory has featured quite heavily in some of his recent jerk-off sessions, not that he’d ever admit as much to either of his brothers. It’d been after a hunt near Des Moines, an angry spirit, some pissed off ex-janitor trying to exact revenge on some well-deserving high-school kids. The three of them had celebrated nailing the bastard with booze and pot and nailing each other – heh, heh; he and Sammy showing off for Ross, until Littlest Bro had gotten bored of watching and wanted in on the action. Dean’d sucked Ross off, swallowed down his youngest brother’s cock while Sam had fucked him up the ass – himself, not Ross – ‘cause Ross had been typically scathing about “all that digusting ass shit.” Man, it had been kinda difficult to concentrate on sucking Ross’s dick, on giving Littlest Bro all the pleasure he’d deserved, while Sam had been plowing his ass in his usual overachieving Sammy fashion. But the pot had been awesome, exactly what they’d needed, making everything loose and easy and occasionally hilarious, Sam more giving and less possessive, and Ross more receptive and less resentful, and himself – fuck, it always made him horny, it was one of those constants in life.

“That was fuckin’ hot,” he admits after a moment.

Sam chuckles, gives him a look. “Yeah.”

Dean’s shifting across the seat before he realizes what he’s doing, Sam leaning into him and their mouths meeting. Sam kisses him, slow and thorough and almost leisurely, different from their usual kisses, less desperate, more studied, like Sam is trying to make a point, trying to get things right, trying to tell him something. They pull apart and Dean lets out a long breath; Sam’s watching him closely, scrutinizing him, as if he’s trying to see into him and figure something out.

Slowly, Sam raises one finger and gently runs it over Dean’s bottom lip. “God, I love you,” Sam breathes.

Dean flushes. It’s ludicrous, ‘cause seriously, it ain’t like they haven’t been here before – _many_ times before, and it ain’t like he hasn’t heard Sam say those words to him before. But the look in Sam’s eyes is intense, overwhelming, and his stomach is churning like he’s nauseous.

“Sam,” he murmurs, trying so hard to put everything he feels into that one word.

Sam smiles at him, then he moves, pushing Dean backwards, into the leather upholstery, his fingers moving to flick open the buttons on Dean’s flannel shirt.

Dean holds his breath, feeling the thready, slick leather under his back, through his shirt, his head pressed into the corner of the seat and the door. Sam’s fingers are deft in their movements, his big clever hands pushing Dean’s shirt off his shoulders, until Dean’s arms are half-trapped, his elbows still encased in the shirt, the bandaged skin of his chest exposed. Dean blinks, his eyes locked on his brother’s face, half-shadowed and half-obscured by the slide of his bangs over his forehead. Slowly, Sam looks up, raising one hand to push his hair off his face, his eyes wide and clear when they meet Dean’s.

“I want to suck you,” Sam announces.

Dean swallows – ‘cause, yeah, Christ, yeah – he is so on board with that plan. He nods eagerly, biting his lip in anticipation. “Okay, yeah,” he mutters. “Do it.”

Sam grins, sudden and beautiful, and his fingers are on Dean’s fly, tugging down the zipper and grabbing Dean’s cock, pushing it through the slit in his boxers, not even bothering to expose it completely.

Dean’s eyes flutter closed when Sam starts to suck him. Dean’s had a lot of blowjobs in his life, from both men and women, but no one, seriously, _no one_ can compare with Sam. It’s not just ‘cause it’s Sam, one of the two people Dean loves most in the world, though obviously that does elevate it somewhat, it’s mainly ‘cause Sam is seriously _that fucking good_. Sam is awesome at giving head, a fucking prodigy. There is something about the way he works his tongue, the way he hollows his cheeks, his lips, his throat – all of it together – the magic combination – it’s just… well, it could convert anyone. Hell, it did practically convert Ross, one taste of Sam’s genius mouth and Ross had been itching to turn Dean and Sam’s incestuous duo into an incestuous triumvirate.

The thought of Ross is momentarily sobering, and Dean flinches, snapping his eyes open. Sam halts, tilting his head so his eyes meet Dean’s, his lips still locked around Dean’s cock. He raises an eyebrow and Dean blinks again, hesitating for a moment. Sam pulls off with a squelchy sound and leans in closer, one hand going up to cup Dean’s face.

“You okay?” he whispers.

Dean stares at Sam’s wet gleaming mouth, at the gorgeous flush in his cheeks, his damp skin and crazy hair, the loving concern in his eyes, and feels his chest ache.

“It’s okay, Dean, if you don’t want to,” Sam says. “I won’t mind. I mean – we just – fuck, man, we just burned our dad.” Sam’s mouth quirks as if he still can’t quite believe it, his mouth a rueful twist. “I know it’s kinda fucked-up.”

“We are kinda fucked-up,” Dean says. He reaches up with both hands to cradle Sam’s face, pulling him down into a kiss.

Sam pulls away first. “You want me to continue?”

“Definitely.”

Sam grins, and slides back down Dean’s body.

 

 

*********************************

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/sonofabiscuit77/pic/00032q70/)

 

Sam wakes just after 7am. Dean is still asleep beside him. They’re sharing the double bed that always used to be his and Ross’s in the old days. Dean always took the cot in the corner by the door, while he and Ross crowded into this bed and spent the night fighting over the covers or kicking each other under the blankets or, on nights when it was really freaking cold, begging Dean to get in with them so they could conserve the heat. Those were always the best nights, and he could remember being eight, ten, twelve years old and crowding up against his big brother, Ross on Dean’s other side, the three of them close enough for their body heat to bleed together.

The first time he could remember waking up with morning wood was one of those mornings, one leg thrown over Dean’s thigh, his nose buried in Dean’s armpit and a stiffy in his Spiderman shorts. He’d been mortified, terrified that Dean would wake up any moment and realize, figure out what a freak his middle brother was, that Sam was the kinda pervert that got turned on by sharing a bed with his two siblings.

He snakes one hand under the covers and into his shorts, his fingers brushing over his half-hard cock, smiling ruefully when they fist around his dick. Seriously, nothing does change, and sleeping with Dean now will still guarantee he wakes up hard. He twists quietly onto his side, propping his head up on one hand, he stares down into Dean’s face. Dean’s fast asleep, his mouth slack and eyelashes fluttering, his skin clammy and smelling faintly of alcohol and night air. Sam presses a dry kiss to Dean’s cheek and carefully slides out of bed.

He pulls on his jeans and a shirt and pads downstairs. There’s coffee on the side in the kitchen, but otherwise no sign of Bobby. Sam drinks a cup standing by the kitchen sink and staring out the window into the yard. From this window, he has a clear view of Dad’s truck, still in the same spot that guy left it yesterday. He finishes the coffee, drops his mug into the sink and picks up the keys to Dad’s truck from the spot on the table where Bobby left them yesterday.

Outside, he unlocks the truck and climbs inside. He’s immediately hit by the smell: gun-oil and whisky, sweat and leather, it all smells so overwhelmingly like Dad that for a moment he’s blindsided, tears springing to his eyes and the visceral stab-in-the-gut reminder of their loss. Dad is gone. Dad is dead.

He takes in a shuddering breath and blinks away the tears, silently vowing to not let Dean in here, because if this smell upsets him so much, then it’s going to do much worse to Dean. He pushes all thoughts from his mind and starts to root mechanically through all the papers and clutter covering the backseat, passenger seat and glove compartment.

He’s not familiar with the inside of Dad’s truck. He can count the number of times he’s ridden in it on one hand. Back when it was the four of them hunting together, he always rode with Dean in the Impala, always, while Ross rode with Dad, except when Dad was in one of his darker moods, one of those moods that even Ross couldn’t shake him out of.

He searches the truck painstakingly, prising up the floor compartments, checking under the seats, poking around the wheel wells. Just as he expected, there’s a lot of stuff: stacks of odd papers, old newspaper articles and photocopies, a couple of dog-eared notebooks, a revolver and a shotgun with the serial numbers filed off, five cell phones, a plastic envelope full of fake drivers licenses and badges, and most interestingly of all, something that looks like a new journal. Sam collects a cardboard box from Bobby’s garage and throws everything inside.

Dean’s still not awake, but Bobby has reappeared and is standing over the stove frying bacon when Sam comes back inside.

“What you got there?” Bobby asks.

Sam places the box onto the table. “I cleared out Dad’s truck. This was everything that was inside. I figure I’ll go through it all at some point.”

Bobby nods slowly, his mouth pursing. “You sure you wanna do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Bobby doesn’t say anything for a moment; then he turns and gives Sam one of his appraising looks. “I don’t know, Sam. Just – don’t you think it’s better to let some things lie? What are you looking to find out?”

“I, uh, I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. “I guess I just –“ he trails off, gives a half-hearted shrug. “You know, I’m not just gonna throw it all away.”

In truth, it hasn’t occurred to him to _not_ go through Dad’s stuff, though now when he thinks about it…

Dad was always so close, always so secretive. Sam knows for sure that he kept things from them. The demon, of course, that yellow-eyed sonofabitch that killed Mom and Jess. But he’s pretty fucking sure that there’s more than that, that there’s probably a lot more that Dad was keeping from them. Maybe even something to do with his and Ross’s freaky vision shit, something that might explain what had happened back in that cabin, that moment when he’d seen the demon killing Dean, and reacted, God, dredged up some instinct, some terrifying power, that second when he’d grabbed Ross’s hand and summoned – used – _something_ – to drain his brother – use Ross, Ross’s energy, essence, power, whatever it was – to break them free and save Dean.

Something to explain that would be good.

He swallows and ducks his head, suddenly eager to avoid Bobby’s penetrating gaze. He hasn’t told anyone about that, not even Dean, and he’s definitely not planning on explaining any of it to Bobby right now.

Bobby snorts, says, “Maybe you should wake your brother. Breakfast will be ready in five.”

Sam gets to work on going through Dad’s stuff immediately after breakfast while Dean heads outside to work on the car. Dean didn’t protest when Sam explained what was in the box and what he was planning to do, he just gave a tight nod, his lips pressed together in an ambiguous shape, and said, “Tell me if you find anything.”

Sam starts by leafing through the new journal. It’s just as densely filled as the last one, and unfortunately, it’s just as freaking cryptic – maybe more so, Dad’s paranoia having gotten even worse over the past year and a half he was hunting on his own. The entries are detailed, painstaking notes on every bad lead and every little clue regarding the demon’s whereabouts over the past couple of years, all of it written in some sort of John Winchester code that is starting to seriously hurt Sam’s brain.

Sam pushes the journal aside with a groan and gets up from the table. His neck and shoulders are stiff, his head throbbing, and his eyes are dry and gritty. He rolls his shoulders and swings his arms, trying to work the crooks out of his muscles, and thinks about going to annoy Dean.

He’s about to go outside when his phone starts to vibrate, hopping and skipping across the piles of research. He picks it up and frowns down at the display; it’s not a number or an area code he recognizes and his heart skips, his stomach clenching as he thinks: _Ross?_

“Hello?” he answers.

“Sam? Sam Winchester?”

It’s not Ross. It’s a woman, her voice vaguely familiar.

“Who’s this?”

“This is Sarah, um, Sarah Blake? From New Paltz. We met a couple of months ago; you guys helped me out with this – uh, this haunted painting that was coming to life and killing its owners?” Her voice goes up towards the end of the sentence as if she feels embarrassed to be saying it.

“Oh, right, Sarah! Sure, yeah. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but this is really not such a good –“

“Your brother’s with me,” she interrupts.

Sam goes silent for a second, then he’s scrambling, brain flashing back to work as he blurts: “Ross? Ross is with you?”

“Yes. Ross is with me. Look, he – uh, he didn’t want me to tell you or Dean that he was here. But, he’s – he’s not in good shape, Sam. And I – I’m worried about him.”

Sam gulps; he takes a breath, trying to steady himself. “Where are you?”

“We’re at home, at my house. He’s staying with me. He, uh, he said that your father was killed by a demon?” Her voice lowers, tone getting cracked, anxious.

Sam swallows over the lump in his throat, he blinks, says steadily, “Yeah, yeah, that’s right.”

“I’m sorry about that,” she says. “I know – I know what it’s like to lose a parent. But Sam, I – look, I’m really sorry, but I don’t know if I can help him. This is kinda too much for me to handle. I like Ross, I really do, but he’s, God, he’s acting weird, and it’s – it’s kinda freaking me out. I don’t know what to do with him, I really don’t think I’m the right person to help him right now –“ he hears her voice hitch, then she sighs, takes another breath, says: “He says that he doesn’t want to see you or Dean, that he came here to get away from you guys, but I think he’s confused, he doesn’t know what he wants.”

She trails off with another sigh, the line crackling over the noise. Sam raises his eyes to look through the window; he can see Dean easily from here, bent over the open engine of the Impala, his grey t-shirt already stained with grease and sweat, pulled tight over his broad shoulders, his back a graceful arc, his jeans slung low and snug around his ass. Sam licks his lips involuntarily, his gaze raking greedily over Dean’s body; fuck, he wants nothing more than to go out there and bend him over that open engine, fuck him hard until the only thing Dean can feel is him. But he can’t do that. As soon as he tells Dean about this call, then Dean’s going to want to leave, never mind the fact that Dean’s still not healed, still not well, Dean’s going to want to chase across the country to get to Ross, forever at the beck and call of his younger brothers.

“Sam? You still there?”

“Yeah. I’m still here,” he answers shortly. He drags his eyes away from Dean, turning to put the window behind him. “Listen, it’s okay, we’ll be there. We can probably make it in a day.” He mentally calculates the driving time from here to New Paltz, NY, probably about 24 hours if they don’t stop, less than that if Dean’s driving, not that he’s going to let Dean drive for long, and they won’t have the Impala which will slow them down. “Maybe a bit more than that. But we can be with you by tomorrow evening.”

“Oh, thanks, that’s, uh, wow, that’s such a relief. But I really do think it’s for the best. I think he needs to be with his family.” She sounds grateful, uttering her trite clichés and seeming so relieved that, for a moment, Sam feels a harsh stab of resentment towards her. She was the one who wanted to stay in contact with Ross. He knows that the two of them have exchanged emails and before they met up with Dad, Ross was talking about going back to see her, and now, when her safe long-distance relationship with the hot, mysterious monster-hunter gets too real, she wants to bail.

He says goodbye to her without any further small talk, and thumbs off his phone with a bad taste in his mouth.

Who the hell is she to pass judgment on his brother? She has no idea, no freaking idea of all the shit that Ross has been through. Ross went to her in good faith, thinking she could help him, and okay, so maybe it’s unrealistic to expect outsiders to handle all the shit the Winchester lifestyle brings with it, but Ross trusted her, Ross _liked_ her, and Ross doesn’t trust easily.

Fuck it, Dad was right when he said that they could only really count on each other, on family. The three of them are all they have left now, and tomorrow they’re going to be together again.

He tosses the phone on top of Dad’s open journal, and heads outside to tell Dean the good news.

 

 

[Next Chapter](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/31935.html)


	21. Chapter 21

Sarah’s waiting for him at the small diner a couple of blocks down from the auction house, just like every day this week. It’s weird to think that this has become a sort of routine for them; he’s never had routines before that didn’t involve training, working out or cleaning weapons. It feels, like, strange, sort of too close to real-life, or the kinda real-life other people have, and he can’t figure out if he likes it or not.

He stands outside the diner to finish off his cigarette, and watches her through the window, not in a weirdo-stalkerish way, but just ‘cause, fuck it, he likes watching her. She’s fucking easy on the eye and he likes her, and they’re, like, boyfriend and girlfriend, he guesses, though neither of them have had that conversation yet, and he ain’t exactly got much experience of the whole dating thing.

She’s fiddling with her BlackBerry, her fingers moving over the keys in this way that’s kinda mesmerizing if he stares too long. He doesn’t get the BlackBerry thing, too fiddly for his liking, buttons too fucking small, though, she’s constantly all over hers, but then she is, like, some sorta serious business-woman. And man, it’s pretty fucking awesome, but he’s seriously, straight up banging a real-life smoking hot business-woman. Hell, it _is_ awesome.

He’s not used to girls – women – like Sarah. Sure, okay, there were those intense geeky chicks back in high school, the ones that’d been friendly with Sam but that’d dug him plenty too. But since school, since, like, forever, he’s always gone for chicks that were just his side of slutty. But that’s gotta be circumstance, right? The kinda girls they met - the ones that hung out in bars and roadhouses and pool halls – never took much work. Or at least, that was his experience. But girls like Sarah – well, they never really crossed his path, and he knows – yeah, sure, he’s hot, hell, he ain’t gonna sell himself short here – he’s totally smokin’ and he’s built and he’s fucking packing too – but he’s still... it ain’t like there’s much else there, at least nothing that he can really share with her, though, thank God she already knows what he does, already knows about his job, so at least there’s that. But he can’t talk about art or antiques or books or classy movies, or any of the kinda shit she likes, but that don’t seem to matter. Well, it hasn’t mattered so far, though, fuck it, it ain’t like they’ve done much more than bang each other’s brains out every night, so, yeah. But still, like, the really weird thing, the thing that he can’t get his head around, is that she don’t seem to care about any of that shit; she’s - _man_ – she’s, like, seriously into him, and it’s – it’s kinda trippy.

He gives her a long once-over, pleased to see that she’s still wearing the business suit and white blouse with the yellow silk scarf he watched her put on this morning. It looks just as hot on her now as it did when he followed her into the elevator when she left for work. He’d been bare-assed naked, (okay, not entirely bare-assed, had on those tight boxer briefs that left, like, zero to the imagination), and they’d made out, pressed up against the fancy guilt mirror, imagining Phil, the asshole doorman watching them on the apartment building’s security system, ‘cause he totally would be looking, guy had the face of a peeping tom.

“Oh my God, what the hell are you doing to me?” she’d gasped out when the elevator doors had finally slid open and he’d let her go. He’d laughed and followed her out into the lobby, watching her fix her hair and make-up in one of the lobby mirrors, and feeling Phil’s disapproving gaze on his naked back. Heh, whatever, the guy had probably totally gotten off on it, wasn’t that often he got to perve on such a hot piece of ass for nothing.

She’d kissed him softly on the front steps of the apartment building, smiled and told him that she’d see him for lunch and that he should get back upstairs before he froze his balls off, she had plans for those balls later.

He smirks around his cigarette. Looking at her now with her business suit and silk scarf and pearl earrings, you wouldn’t think it was the same chick, but hey, as Dean always says, it’s always the quiet ones. Hell, Dean should know, look at Sammy, for Christ’s sake, all repressed goody-goody straight-A student on the outside, and on the inside, one seriously kinky-ass fucker.

He buries the thought as quickly as it comes, cursing himself for the slip. He ain’t – ain’t ready yet to think about his brothers – about his family -

He can feel his hand shake as he raises the cigarette to his lips. God-fucking-dammit. Worst fucking timing. He finishes it quickly, drops the butt into the sad-looking pot of geraniums outside the door of the diner, takes a second to smoothe down the front of his shirt. He’s about to pop the collar on his (Dean’s) jacket, but stops – hesitates – the flash memory of Dean – of Dad – stilling his hands momentarily. He swallows again and fumbles with his collar, folding it back down, instead shoving his hands into the pockets, making fists, fingers curled tightly together, willing the stupid shaking away.

Sarah looks up at him as he slides into the booth opposite her, her smile warm and welcoming. “Hey.”

“Hey, did I keep you waitin’ long?” he asks.

She shakes her head, “Nope, I was early. Things were – “ she makes a face – “kinda crappy morning. I had to get out of there.”

“Why? “

She blows out a breath and rolls her eyes. “Ugh, man, don’t wanna think about it, but fucking Bill – you know Bill – you've heard me curse about him enough?”

“I know Bill,” he says. He slides his hands out his pockets, spreads his palms across the table-top between them, they’ve finally stopped trembling.

She shakes her head. “Right, yeah. Well, motherfucker’s gone and called in sick. Again. And I know there’s nothing at all wrong with him.”

It’s kinda fucked up, but there’s something so fucking hot about hearing her curse. He can’t remember her cursing so much from before, and maybe it was because she was on, like, some messed-up idea of acting like a 'lady' then, or maybe it’s just ‘cause she’s been hanging around with his obnoxious ass too fucking long, but – yeah – Sarah cursing – it’s a fucking crank-turner.

“He thinks he can take advantage of my father being away. He thinks he can do whatever the fuck he likes now it’s just some chick in charge.” Her lip curls up in irritation and she shakes her head again. “I should fire him, I know that.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

“Too much work. Do you know how difficult it is to fire someone? And I really don’t want to look for a replacement right now. It’s not a good time. Not while my father’s still in Europe.”

He feels a stab of guilt at that, at the weariness in her tone – he knows why it’s not a good time, not just ‘cause of her Dad, but ‘cause of him, getting in the way and fucking up her normal orderly life. He licks his lips and says, “Hey, I’ll help you out.”

“Ross – “

“No, seriously. Like, how hard can it be? He just used to do inventory, right? That’s just marking shit down in a ledger and moving it around – like all your big old antiques and creepy-ass paintings?”

“Hey, not all our paintings are creepy. That was one time!”

He shrugs, grins at her. “Whatever. But you need help, and I’m bored outta my mind hangin’ around all day doin’, like, nada, so why the fuck not? I’m sure I can lift whatever you need lifted -” he raises one eyebrow, full-on Ross Winchester smirk, and she’s totally into it, smiling back at him – man, he’s so freakin’ smooth.

They’re interrupted by the waitress – Janine – at this point, like, awesome timing, bitch. But, yeah, Sarah seems swayed by his proposition (in more than one way, haha). But why the fuck not? It’s totally a good idea. He’s not used to this hanging around and doing nothing shit, and he’s been bored, God, so freaking bored. And it ain’t like there’s much to do in this town, and the places that are open during the day, like the park or the library, are full of kids on summer vacation, and single guys in their early twenties don’t really fit in so much. And sure, in the old days, he’d totally take it as an opportunity to try and hit on a few MILFs, but he’s kinda, sorta, like with Sarah now, and she’s been good to him, taking him in and letting him stay at her place and eat her food and jerk off on her couch, and sure she’s getting awesome sex out of it, but he knows that he owes her, and this – not hitting on other chicks and offering to help her out at work – it’s the least he can do.

“Look,” she says after Janine has disappeared with their order. “What kind of experience do you have? Have you ever even held a real job?”

“No,” he says truthfully.

She lets out a breath and shakes her head again, but she’s looking amused at him, that indulgent look he’s seen Sam give Dean a million times. He swallows back the memory and tents his fingers together, leaning across the table into a more intimate kinda deal.

“Look, I know I ain’t an ideal candidate, but I’ll work for free. I mean, you’re kinda saving my life here, helpin’ me out and shit, and seriously, I’ve got tons of experiencing pretending to have a real job, I’ve done that, like, millions of times before. I’ve been an FBI agent, and a cop, and a CDC employee, and a roadie, and a priest, and a –“

“Antiques dealer?”

He chuckles, smirks at her. “Yeah, an antiques dealer. And man, you gotta admit I totally rocked that!”

She snorts – like actually freaking snorts – and shakes her head, reaching to take the cup of coffee that Janine’s pouring them both. “Did you say priest?”

“Oh, yeah, me and Sam dressed up as priests once for a job. Man, shit was fucked-up. I’ll have to tell you about that one.”

“Jesus, the life you guys lead,” she mutters.

He blinks, suddenly seeing Dad’s face – the yellow eyes – Sam’s choking rasping breath -

His chest constricts, vision getting momentarily blurry... he blinks, tries to push the images away. He drops his hands to the table, curls them around the edge.

“Ross?”

He sees the Colt skitter across the floor, the barrel a demented version of Spin the Bottle, the demon – mocking burning yellow eyes – contemptuous demented voice: _Daddy knows everything, Ross, he knows exactly how eager his precious little boy was to get his cherry ass in the air for Dean's fat cock, how you begged and begged to give it up to your big brothers. Both of them…_

The crackle pop flash of light, the weight of Dad’s body on his knees, Sammy’s voice -

_Ross, move, we’ve gotta move, c’mon, we gotta get Dean to the hospital -_

He slumps forward, lungs constricting, tightening, smaller and smaller space, crowding, getting close, like that garbage room scene in Star Wars, crushing walls drawing in – a snake monster in the garbage -

He’s hyperventilating, he knows it, he needs a paper bag, gotta breathe into a paper bag - put a paper bag over his head – that chick Dean slept with back in San Antonio shoulda worn a paper bag over her head, she was one fugly chick – but Dean’d been so wasted, devastated and broken-up, but that was Sam - Sam’s fault - just ‘cause of Sammy, and Dean hadn’t cared, hadn’t given a shit - had let her pick him up, take him round the back, Dean’d pushed Ross away, told him to leave him alone -

“Ross, c’mon, baby, just breathe, breathe for me. It’s okay, just a panic attack.”

Warm hands on his shoulders, feel them through his jacket – no, not his jacket, Dean’s jacket – and they’re squeezing, gentle and comforting. Dean. Gotta be. Dean’s here. At last. Finally. God, he’s missed Dean – but Dean’s gotta hate him – Sam won’t care but Dean will hate him – after what he did –

“C’mon, Ross – please –“

He blinks. Not Dean, not his voice. Dean and Sammy ain’t here. And Dad –

He’s on his own.

God, he hates being on his own.

“Ross –“

He blinks and sees Sarah’s face, up close, leaning over him, all blurry and anxious. Man, he’s gotta get his fucking shit together, this is – it’s fucking embarrassing, he’s embarrassing himself in front of her, acting like a freaking pussy –

Jesus, Ross, get a fucking grip.

He can do this. He’s gotten through way worse than this. This is a freaking cake-walk compared to some of the shit he’s seen.

“Is he okay?”

He hears Sarah’s say something in response, and knows that everyone will be watching, the waitress, all the other people in this room; they’ll know that Sarah Blake’s new boyfriend is a fuck-up, a freaking head-case. He jerks up his head, narrows his eyes on the hovering waitress, grits out: “I’m fine.”

 

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/sonofabiscuit77/pic/00035qxh/)

 

 

“Are we going to talk about this?”

He looks up, eyes meeting hers across her cluttered desk. “About what?”

She sighs wearily, reaches up with one hand to smooth her hair, sort of straightening her pony tail, not that it needs it, she still looks perfect.

“You know what, Ross. The panic attacks – you – what’s going on with you?”

“Oh, okay, let me think about this for a moment? Wait! No. No fuckin’ way are we gonna talk about this, Sarah.”

She presses her lips together and narrows her eyes. “I see.”

Shit, she’s pissed. He feels a momentary stab of worry. She ain’t Sam – no matter how much she seems to be freaking channelling him right now – and maybe he shouldn’t. Fuck it, maybe he should be nicer to her? ‘Cause she ain’t gonna forgive him or let him get away with shit like Dean or Sam would. She’s a chick, she’s gonna take this personally, get all hurt and sad-faced and he – he really doesn’t want to hurt her. He likes her, like, really _likes_ her, and he doesn’t wanna fuck this up -

But he’s – Jesus, he’s so not ready to fucking talk about it. What the fuck is there to talk about anyway? That he – Dad –

He curls his fingers around the armrests of his straight backed chair, squeezes tight, fucking white knuckles.

“Ross,” she says again, and her voice is softer, gentler. He swallows, feeling sick to his stomach. Why the fuck is she even bothering? She should’ve kicked his ungrateful obnoxious ass to the curb by now. Sure, he’s a great lay and he’s hot, but he’s fucked-up, like, way too fucked-up for someone like her. “Look, I’ve been thinking about this, and I think you should talk to someone –“

“What? No!”

She holds up one hand; whoa sometimes she really does have that boss-lady vibe working for her. He bites his lip, goes quiet. “I’m serious, baby. I think it’s best.”

Of course, she wants to fix him, wants to solve all his problems just like she solves shit at work, gets people all the fancy-ass antiques they want, douches up their fancy mansions. And people like her – they’re exactly the sort of people who believe in that crap – in freaking therapy – but, Jesus, come on, where do they even start with him? With his mom running off when he was four, the foster homes, his two older brothers fucking around for years and years, Dad -

He blinks, grips the hand rests harder, turns his head away from Sarah, eyes landing on the painting on her wall – some landscape, a forest, lots of trees, dark-green, they once exorcised some tree demons from some big old trees just like those ones.

“D’you know that you can exorcise trees?” he blurts out.

“Huh?”

He jerks his head towards the painting. “We exorcised some trees once. They were, like, possessed by these freaking demon-tree spirit things, and it was – they looked just like that.”

She turns her head to look at the painting, her mouth moving into this wry sorta shape. “Great, now I’m going to have nightmares every time I look at that painting.”

“Hey, not my fault you like creepy art.”

“Ross, don’t change the subject.”

“Wasn’t,” he bitches under his breath.

She gets to her feet, smoothes down her skirt. “Look, I have to get back to work. You can – why don’t you go pick up some food? I’m starving.”

“Okay.” He gets to her feet, slouches towards the door. He pauses there and looks over his shoulder at her. “I’m sorry, really fuckin’ sorry ‘bout before. Didn’t mean to, like, embarrass you or nothin’.”

“You didn’t embarrass me,” she says clearly. He can see the shine to her eyes and he swallows, feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly guilty. “I’m just worried about you, honey, and I think – maybe,” she hesitates, a conflicted sort of a look flashing across her face. “If you don’t want to talk to a professional, then that’s okay, I understand. But I really think you should call Sam at least.”

He flinches, flexes his fingers. He ain’t gonna call Sam. That’s just –

No, not gonna happen. Not yet anyway.

He presses his lips together; forcing himself back to calmness, then nods at her, and turns to leave the room.

 

 

****************************************************

 

 

They run into traffic around Chicago, 6 p.m. and rush-hour, cars filled with depressed looking commuters lining the freeways. He should’ve factored this into their plans before they left Bobby’s, but both he and Dean had been too impatient, too eager to get on the road, track down their recalcitrant brother.

Dean’s not taking the hold-up well. Dean never takes traffic well. Dean sees traffic as a personal insult, something purposefully designed to piss him off. The traffic edges forward; Sam throws the ancient minivan into gear just as Dean throws him a patented Dean-Winchester-death-glare, bitching, “Change lanes already, Jesus, dude, that fuckin’ Target van was next to us a minute ago, it’s miles ahead now!”

Sam breathes in and out, represses the urge to point out that the fuckin’ Target van is in fact less than twenty yards ahead of them. But arguing is useless when Dean’s like this, many years' bitter experience have taught him that.

“Christ’s sake, Sam, drive like a freakin’ grandma. Shoulda let me take the fuckin’ wheel, I’d’ve gotten us out of here fuckin’ hours ago! Fuck’s sake, man! Switch fuckin’ lanes already!”

Sam grits his teeth, but this time he can’t help himself, hisses: “Dean, it’s been proven in scientific studies that changing lanes in traffic makes no difference to your arrival time.”

“Bullshit!”

Sam alters his grip on the wheel and grits his teeth, harder. His eyes stray to the dash; the needle for the car’s temperature gauge is hovering perilously close to the red zone, a hair away from overheating. It’s not surprising; this car is built for the school run or trips to Wal-Mart, not for breakneck cross-country road-trips. Not for the first time, he finds himself missing the steady reassuring purr of the Impala’s engine and its much roomier front-seat.

The traffic finally clears, and he takes advantage of the quieter road to check up on Dean who's gone quiet. Sure enough, his brother is asleep, head wedged between the beige faux-leather seat and the rattling passenger door. His mouth is hanging half-open, a clear line of drool gathering on his lower lip. Sam allows himself a brief smile and turns his concentration back on the road.

He puts down another hundred miles before he pulls the car over at a roadside motel.

“Why’re we stoppin’?” Dean asks, sitting up, rubbing his eyes, glaring out the window.

“Because I’m tired and I need to sleep.”

“Then I’ll drive. S’no need to stop.”

“No, not gonna happen.” He turns his head, gives his brother one of his widest and fakest smiles, then kills the engine, palms the keys. He gets out of the car, door creaking unhappily, edges rimmed with rust. The whole thing’s a freaking rust-bucket.

“Sam!” The passenger side door slams closed; Dean leans up against the side of the car, folds his arms over the roof, still glaring – at Sam this time.

He sighs. “Dean, don’t start. I’ve done 600 miles today, I can’t drive anymore.”

“Okay, fine, I’m not askin’ you to. Let me take the freakin’ wheel!”

“Nuh-uh, no way. I let you do that and you’ll drive for the next 12 hours and make yourself sick. You need to get a good night's sleep; you were in a coma only five days ago! C’mon, man, be reasonable!”

Dean’s mouth works unhappily, then he snorts, spins on his heels, and stomps off towards the clerk’s office. Sam lets out a long breath and follows.

To Sam’s surprise, Dean doesn’t comment when Sam orders them one king room; instead he engages the sour-faced, disgusted looking clerk in a staring contest. If Sam weren’t so tired and exasperated from driving and all that fucking traffic, he’d be amused right now. He’s not amused, not in the mood for Dean’s bullshit, and definitely not in the mood for bigoted service industry employees. He accepts the room key from the homophobic prick with a curt, “Thanks.”

He can feel the guy boring daggers into his back as they leave the office, Dean sliding one hand into the back pocket of Sam’s jeans, leaning in to lick his jaw, showboating for their hostile audience.

Dean takes the first shower as Sam sets up the laptop and Dad’s two journals on the small corner table. He’s exhausted, but he needs to get through this. He has a niggling feeling at the back of his mind that he’s missing something – something glaring – from what he’s managed to decipher so far, not that he has managed to decipher much. Dad’s records are meticulous, no detail spared, but they're written in a code that even Sam is having trouble cracking, and he’s had years of experience with Dad’s cryptic bullshit.

He sighs out loud, rubs his eyes, blinks stickily at the pages in front of him. He should be getting this. Dad was the one who taught him how to research; he’d been Dad’s star student, the only part of hunting where he’d outshone Dean and Ross. Dad was an ace researcher, had the ability to seek out information and interpret that information like no one else Sam’s ever met – including himself. Dad could see patterns in things that were just a jumble of unrelated words and events to anyone else. Paging through all the notations, weather reports and demonic fairy-tales in Dad’s new journal, he’s gaining more and more respect for the guy. He might’ve sucked big time as a Dad – and Sam, unlike his brothers, is fully capable of seeing that – but as a hunter, as a researcher, he was the best.

He blinks again, warm sting of tears against the back of his eye sockets, familiar hollow ache in his chest. He’s never going to get the chance to tell Dad that now, never going to be able to thank him for what he taught him.

He looks up as the bathroom door slams open; a gust of steam billows out, followed by Dean. Dean’s been gone a while, been in there a long time. He’s looking happier now, face scrubbed and shaven, hair standing up in damp spikes, torso pink and gleaming. The bruises on his chest and stomach are fading, yellow-green instead of purple-red; the small line of stitches in his belly where the doctors made the incision to operate has partly dissolved, though Dean’s probably going to carry the scar for the rest of his life.

Dean cocks his head at him. “You wanna?”

Sam can’t help the snort of amusement. It’s such a Dean proposition, usual cocky bravado that Sam finds so hard to resist. And he shouldn’t, he knows he shouldn’t. Dean’s still not fully healed, he’s still getting over his injuries, and Sam has work to do, research, and he needs to sleep, another 12 hours of driving tomorrow, but, man, he so, _so_ does wanna -

Dean leers at him, unbearably smug as he unknots the towel, and fuck everything, that is it. Sam is _done._

He surges to his feet, crosses the room in three strides. He’s on Dean, winding his arms around his back, backing him up towards the bed, sending him sprawling backwards onto the mattress, springs creaking, Dean’s hard cock bobbing against his flat belly. Sam follows, climbs onto the bed and straddles his brother. Dean reaches up, fists his hands in Sam’s hair, pulls him in tighter, closer, panting into each other’s mouths as they kiss.

Dean groans, and Sam stills, flash of guilt sudden – he hesitates - licks his bruised, slick lips – tries to pull away -

“No, _no_ , you don’t get to go,” Dean growls. “Don’t you dare fuckin’ go –“

Dean kicks out his legs, catching Sam off guard, rolls them over. He looks down at Sam, straddling him with strong powerful thighs hooked dangerously around Sam’s hips.

“I ain’t lettin’ you go just yet,” Dean says softly.

Sam’s breath catches; he bites on his bottom lip, a buzz tingling through his nerves as Dean slowly glides one hand down his chest, caressing, worshipping. “Hmm, you feel so hard, Sammy, so hot,” Dean murmurs. “And, hmm, even harder –“ Dean smirks, presses his palm against the big thick shape of Sam’s cock, outlined in denim. He licks his lips, says, “I wanna ride you, want you to fuck me so fuckin’ hard.”

Sam’s heart thumps, blood beats, skin hot, cock throbbing. He wants this. Dad is dead, Dean is fucked-up, Ross is missing, but right now, Sam doesn’t give a shit.

He wants this. Dean. He wants to fuck his brother, make him say his name like a prayer. He wants to lose himself in Dean.

“Okay,” he whispers, “okay.”

Dean grins, smacks his lips, grinds his ass down into Sam’s denim crotch.

Sam makes to move, buck Dean off him; they need lube, and plenty of it, preparation is key, especially now, with Dean’s injuries, he has to go careful.

“Hey, where you goin’?”

Dean’s fingers curl around his wrist, keeping him in place; obviously, Dean has other ideas.

“Gotta get lube – “

“No you don’t.” Dean smirks again, his eyes glint, he looks pleased with himself. “I got myself ready for you, Sam. For your big cock.” The last with a quirked eyebrow, an amused twist of his mouth. “You just need to slide on in there,” Dean adds, his lip curls; he’s trying not to laugh.

Sam blows out a breath, shakes his head. “Jesus, Dean.”

Dean laughs, slides off him long enough to tug down Sam’s jeans, unbutton his shirt. Sam stares up at him, watches him, scrutinizes him, unable to look away, nailed in place by the familiarity of every line, every freckle, every blemish, every bruise, every scar. He knows them all. Dean glances down at him, smiles briefly, goes back to unbuttoning Sam’s shirt.

He adjusts the pillows behind him, half-sitting up, he watches Dean climb back onto the bed, crawl between the V of his legs. He glances down his body, sees his own red straining cock, watches Dean sink down onto it with this glorious look on his face, eyes rolling back and lip catching between his teeth, as inch by inch it disappears inside Dean’s body. He’s shaking, shivering with arousal, with how it feels to see his cock disappear inside his brother’s body, and Dean feels so hot, so tight, opening up for him, taking him in.

God, this is what he wants – Dean – Dean is what he wants. Being inside Dean like this. It’s so fucking crazy how much he wants this; how far _gone_ he is for this, what he’d give up for this, what he’d forget about and push aside for this, for his brother.

He reaches up, brushes his hand against the side of Dean’s face, cradles his cheek, thumb on Dean’s lip, fingers on his cheekbone.

“Look at me, kiss me,” he says. “Gimme a kiss.”

Dean looks at him, blinks, swoop of his eyelashes; he bends down, brings their lips together, an open dirty kiss. Sam shoves his tongue into his brother’s mouth and Dean takes it, sucks on it, pushes his own tongue back. Sam moans, cranes up, meeting him, long fingers cupping the back of Dean’s head, guiding the kiss. They kiss and kiss as slowly, steadily, Dean fucks himself on Sam’s cock, one hand braced against the wall and one hooked around Sam’s shoulders.

Sam pulls out the kiss, gasps for breath, meets Dean’s eyes – lidded and dark. Wanton, he thinks, my wanton big brother.

Dean smiles at him, leans in to capture his mouth. They kiss and kiss again, barely coming apart to breathe until the moment when Dean loses it, shuddering, muscles fluttering as he comes, shooting between their bellies. And that’s it – Sam is done. He can’t hold back any longer, he can never hold back after Dean has gotten his, twitching and pulsing inside Dean as Dean lowers his mouth to Sam’s shoulder, and bites.

Sam groans, shivers under his brother’s mouth at the influx of sensation from everywhere. Dean raises his head, grins, sly complicity in his face as their eyes meet. He feels his cock give its final, half-hearted twitches in Dean’s ass; Dean squirms, makes a face.

“Sticky?” Sam asks.

Dean snorts, slowly pulls off him. “Yeah, s’fuckin’ gross.”

Sam snorts back at him, chuckles smugly to himself as he watches his brother climb off the bed and walk unevenly towards the bathroom.

 

 

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/sonofabiscuit77/pic/0003bfkd/)

 

 

Dean’s already up when Sam wakes. There’s a latte and a donut sitting on the nightstand and Dean sitting at the kitchenette table, Dad’s new journal open in front of him.

Sam blinks, sits up, checks his watch: 5:46 a.m. Jesus. He reaches for the coffee.

“Morning!” Dean greets him, way too cheery for 5:46 a.m.

Sam grimaces, swallows a mouthful of coffee, grimaces again when he realises it’s lukewarm. “S’cold,” he mutters.

Dean shrugs. “Shoulda gotten up earlier, man.”

“You should’ve woken me.”

“Nah, you needed the sleep. Looked so peaceful, lyin’ there, drooling and snoring away. So freakin’ adorable, dude.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean’s grin gets wider, more obnoxious. He puts the lukewarm coffee back onto the nightstand and swings his legs to the floor, pushes away the heavy covers. “Gonna take a shower.”

He’s been in the shower about a minute when the door slams open. He peers around the shower curtain, sees his brother lower the toilet lid and take a seat. He rests his elbows on his knees and turns his head to watch Sam.

“What you doing?”

Dean shrugs, grins lewdly. “Nothing, just thought I’d come in here and enjoy the view.”

Sam shakes his head, but he’s trying not to smile, ducking his head back under the spray to rinse off. Dean’s so freaking shameless sometimes - though it’s not like he’s complaining. It’s nice to see him in such a good mood, a weirdly good mood. He turns off the shower, shakes his hair out of his face, blinks the water out of his eyes.

“Here.”

He opens his eyes, takes the towel from Dean’s outstretched hand, steps out of the tub, perches on the edge.

“Man, that’s a good look on you,” Dean leers, his warm appreciative gaze eating Sam up. “Why don’t you just stay like that for the rest of the day?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

Dean cackles, leans in to slap Sam’s wet thigh before he leaves.

Sam dries himself slowly. His brother’s good mood is nice, but it’s confusing him. He should be happy that Dean’s so cheerful. After their past week, it’s nice to see Dean smile again. But there’s something off about this suddenly chipper version of Dean.

Well, duh, he thinks. Things are not going to be normal for a long, long time; everything’s got to change now. He remembers having the same thoughts at Bobby’s every morning he woke up.

It’s over. The demon is dead. Mom, Jess. It’s over. They’ve gotten their revenge. Dad’s mission is over.

Dad.

Dad is dead.

Dad is dead.

The words still don’t fit. No matter how many times he repeats them to himself.

Dad is dead and he’s not coming back. Not just a long extended hunting trip. This time for real.

Dad’s gone and he’s not coming back. Ever.

His throat tightens, eyes blur. He blinks, resolutely pushing the thought away, forcing his mind back to something else – back to Dean – at least that’s easy, his brain has always defaulted back to Dean.

So, what is with Dean’s sudden good mood?

Sure, they had great sex last night, but it’s hardly the first time, it’s not even the first time since Dean got out of the hospital. Dean has been moody and withdrawn ever since then, for a week now. Hardly surprising, all things considered. And even yesterday, (before the sex) he was anxious and on edge, bitching at Sam and fidgeting in the passenger seat, more of a backseat driver than usual, and that’s saying something.

Maybe it’s because they’re going to see Ross today? He knows how much Ross’s absence has hurt Dean, almost as much as their father’s death. Ross has always been Dean’s constant, one of his reasons for getting up in the morning, the only person who’s never left him, unlike Dad, unlike himself. The thought makes his chest hurt, a crinkling in his stomach that feels like envy, like remorse, like guilt.

Dean loves Ross more than anything. Maybe more than he loves Sam. Oh, it’s a different kind of love; it’s – more brotherly, more profound, more protective, more parental? Ross usurped the little brother role from Sam all those years ago and Sam’s never managed to win it back; Ross has held onto it with both hands ever since, revelling in his role as Dean’s particular responsibility, Dean’s baby brother, the Littlest Brother. Ross never bothered to learn how to do anything for himself, happy to just coast along in Dean’s wake, clinging to Dean while Dean just clung back. Ross knew that Dean would always be there for him, that Dean needed to be there for him.

So if Ross is Dean’s littlest brother, Dean’s special little guy, then what is Sam to Dean?

Brother? Lover? Partner?

The last thought makes him feel warm inside, heating up in all those jealous little places in his belly that were beginning to sting, making them heal up again, because he doesn’t want what Ross has – he doesn’t want Ross’s role in Dean’s life. Dean’s always had so much responsibility and what Sam wants is to share that responsibility, to take on some of Dean’s burden. Dean already has one little brother; this is Sam’s chance to be that and more: to be Dean’s equal, his partner, in all senses of the word.

He sighs, gets to his feet, crosses to the sink, reaching for his toothbrush and toothpaste.

They need to get back on the road, get to Ross. He does want to see Ross; he’s been missing the little punk, that’s for sure. There’s a lot he needs to say to him - tell him straight – let him know that he did the right thing, that he forgives him, that Dean forgives him, that there’s nothing to forgive. Ross may’ve pulled the trigger but Dad was already gone; what Ross did saved all their lives.

Ross is still their brother and that’s never going to change. Ross needs to hear that, and Sam needs to tell him.

 

 

Dean insists on driving the first shift, and seeing how happy Dean is when he slides behind the wheel, Sam shuts up and doesn’t complain. Dean needs to drive sometimes. Dean takes comfort from driving, from the control, the purpose of taking them from one end of the country to another. Anyway, he fully intends to steal back the keys next time they stop for gas.

He goes back to Dad’s journal as Dean drives, pages through the entries he’d been too tired to look at last night. It’s still making as little sense as it did then.

He groans out loud and slams it closed, leaning back against the head-rest and letting his eyes fall shut.

“Painful?” Dean asks.

Sam groans again and opens his eyes.

“Yeah, I swear – Dad – I mean I love the guy, but he writes like freakin’ Yoda -” The words fade into the air around them. And Sam thinks blankly, wrong tense, Dean, you used the wrong tense.

He darts a look at his brother; Dean’s staring through the windshield, hands locked at 10 and 2. Sam watches him swallow, ripple of his throat, blink of anguish in his eyes. Sam looks away, affects a light tone: “There’s, uh, there’s lots of references to someone – least I think it’s someone – called A. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Come again?”

“I think it’s a person, it’s the only context which makes sense. Thing is I have no freakin’ clue who it could be. None of Dad’s hunting buddies fit the bill.”

Dean purses his lips, shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Whoever A is – they come up a lot in reference to the demon. Like, here, it says – “ he thumbs the journal open, locates the page, “yeah, here, on this page, he’s talking about something that he seems to call the demon’s followers or the demon’s soldiers – anyway, here he writes: _must consult A_. Least I ‘m pretty sure that’s what that particular code means. And here again – “ he leafs through another couple of pages, _consulted A, refer San Diego_.” He pauses, then says quietly, “I think San Diego might be something to do with me.”

“What d’you mean: something to do with you?” Dean’s voice is sharp, suspicious.

Sam sighs, closes the journal, smoothes his fingers over the still smart leather. “San Diego, Dean, that’s in California.”

“So? San Diego’s a big place. And it’s fuckin’ miles from Palo Alto, totally the opposite end of the damn state. You’re gettin’ paranoid, dude.”

Sam chuckles flatly. “Right, paranoid. Just like Dad, huh?” He pauses, licks his lips, then speaks again: “I just – look, he mentions San Diego a few times, like, at least six times throughout this thing, and it’s always in reference to – in reference to other cases he worked, other cases about the demon. And okay, so I admit I don’t know _exactly_ what those cases were because Jesus, I’m havin’ enough damn trouble figuring the most basic shit out here, but I’m pretty damn sure they’re very similar to – to that psychic kid – to Max Miller.”

Dean goes quiet. Sam drums his fingers against the journal, turns his head to squint out the window. “It’s too much of a coincidence, Dean,” he says quietly. He turns his head, stares at his brother’s profile, trying to gauge his reaction, but Dean’s still staring resolutely ahead, eyes locked on the blacktop. “Don’t you think?” he prompts.

“I don’t know,” Dean says finally. He sounds tired, worn-down, and Sam feels his chest clench up. He knows that Dean would like nothing more than to forget about all that psychic shit, to forget about his and Ross’s special gifts. And Dean’s not the only one; Sam’d like nothing better than to forget about it, put it behind them. It’s one of the reasons why he still hasn’t told Dean exactly what went down in that cabin, what he and Ross did while Dean was fading away -

He represses a shiver, curls his fingers tightly around the leather edges of the journal.

“After we’ve got Ross, we should figure this out. Figure out who A is. And track them down. They might have some answers for us.”

“If that’s what you want,” Dean says, his tone is flat, grudging.

Sam swallows back the guilt, nods. “Yeah, that is what I want.”

There’s another long pause and Sam’s already thinking that the subject’s done with when Dean says: “I thought all that psychic shit was over. You haven’t had a vision – not since Dad – I mean – have you?”

He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, knows how he’ll look: uncertain, suspicious, worried...

“No, I haven’t,” he says, “but that doesn’t mean that I won’t have a vision in the future, doesn’t mean that it’s gone away.”

Dean nods, opens his mouth as if to say something, but shuts it again without speaking.

They don’t speak about it again until three hours later, until Sam’s managed to pry Dean from behind the wheel, until Dean’s slumped into the passenger seat, staring listlessly at the dull Pennsylvanian scenery.

“Angela,” Dean says.

“Huh? What? Angela?”

“Your mysterious A.”

“Angela? But we don’t know anyone called Angela.”

“No, _we_ don’t. But Dad did.”

Sam blinks, frowns, tries to remember – _Angela?_ He can’t place it.

“Ross’s mom,” Dean says.

“But Ross’s mom is dead! Isn’t she?”

Dean shrugs, shifts in his seat. “Maybe, but we don’t know for sure. We kinda just assumed it ‘cause she disappeared. But she could be still out there.”

“Angela?” Sam repeats to himself. “Hey, wasn’t she livin’ down in West Texas when that shit went down, when she went missing.”

“Yeah, Dad took Ross from a home in Odessa, so, yeah. I guess she must’ve been livin’ in the area.”

“There’s a phone number in there.” He waves one hand towards the journal where it’s sitting on the dash. “With a West Texas area code. I called it, but there was no answer, it just rang and rang, no voicemail. I was gonna trace it when we got back to Bobby’s. Hey, d’you remember her surname?”

Dean wrinkles his nose, says, “Martinez, I think. It was Spanish, common.”

“Christ, yeah, there’s gotta be hundreds of Martinez’s in that part of Texas.” Sam frowns gloomily. He likes research, likes working cases like this, but does it always have to be so damn difficult? Angela Martinez. It might as well be John Smith.

“Maybe this ain’t such a good idea, though,” Dean says after a moment’s silence.

“What d’you mean?”

“If this is Ross’s mom – I mean, maybe it ain’t such a good idea.” Dean sighs, lets his head fall to one side, cheek smushed up against the headrest, looks at Sam. “While you were at Stanford – I, uh, I suggested to him that we go track down his mom. Find out what really happened to her. Only he wasn’t interested, said he didn’t care, either way. He was pretty fuckin’ clear on that, man.”

Sam nods. “Well, okay, so we don’t tell him. At least not yet, not until we know something for sure. There’s no rush. The demon’s dead, it’s not coming back. And hell, Dean, this might have nothing to do with Ross’s mom at all. I mean, it’s a long shot. _A_ could literally be anyone.”

Dean glances at him, he looks uncertain, uncomfortable, but he nods, giving in. “Okay.”

Sam smiles at him, feeling warm, happy at Dean’s easy acquiescence. They’re partners now, equals; Dean is finally willing to follow his lead. It feels good.

 

 

************************************

 

 

It’s late afternoon by the time Sam turns the car into New Paltz’s main street. He drives to the auction antiques place where they originally first met Sarah. He hasn’t contacted her since they set off, he hasn’t made any plans for meeting up, so he’s hoping that she’s still going to be there, that Ross will be with her –

He pulls the car into the exact same spot he’d parked it the last time there were here, on the track of that creepy haunted painting. It was only three or four months ago, but it feels like another world now, so much has changed since then, so much has happened.

He slides out of the car, stretching and shaking his deadened limbs. He glances over the roof, watches Dean slide his arms into his leather jacket. Dean looks wary but resolute, eager and anxious. It’s strange how easily he can read Dean these days, how open Dean lets himself be – at least with him, when it’s just the two of them. He can remember those first couple of months after Stanford, (after Jess), trying to get back into the swing of it, trying to get used to being around Dean and Ross 24/7 once more, how closed off and distant Dean had seemed to him, while simultaneously being in his face all the time. Dean’s completely different now; he lets himself go, he lets himself say things that he would never have allowed in the past.

Perhaps he truly believes that I’m here for good, he thinks. The thought makes him want to laugh out loud, a stupid, irreverent and totally inappropriate happiness. He catches Dean’s eye, grins, a little wild and jagged, sees Dean roll his eyes at him, small irrepressible hint of a smile at the corner of his brother’s mouth.

There are a few customers browsing inside, looking over the upcoming lots. A well-dressed guy is talking loudly to one of them, his rich confident voice carrying as he talks up a small walnut dresser. The guy looks up, spots Sam and Dean and frowns. Obviously, they’re just as welcome now as they were four months ago.

Dean strides towards the reception desk, gives the pretty young receptionist a winning smile. “Hey, sweetheart.”

She adjusts her headset, smiles back at him. “Hello, Sir, may I help you?”

“You sure can. Could you tell Sarah Blake that the Winchesters are here to see her? She’s expecting us.”

Her eyes widen, she looks between him and Dean. “Winchesters? Oh, are you in any way related to Ross?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s expression flips, bullshit smile dropping away. “Yeah, that’s right. Is he here?”

“Well, yes, he’s just started working here with us. Since yesterday. I think he and Miss Blake are an item.”

“An item, huh?” Dean turns his head, catches Sam’s eye, eyebrows raised. “Well, is he working now? Is he here?”

She indicates a door towards the back of the room, saying something about “Miss Blake’s private office,” but Dean’s already half way across the floor.

Dean doesn’t bother to knock, just pushes the door open and steps inside, Sam directly behind him.

For a private office, it’s a big room; there's an enormous desk in the center. Tea chests of boxed up antiques, packaged paintings and cardboard boxes stamped FRAGILE line the walls. Not that Sam notices any of that; his attention is fully fixed on the two people sitting at the desk: Sarah, dressed up smartly, hunched over a laptop, and beside her, peering over her shoulder at the laptop screen, Ross.

“Dean? Sam?” Sarah gasps in surprise, but the three of them ignore her.

Sam sees his younger brother’s eyes go wide, hears the quiet pleading sound he makes when he takes in him and Dean, a sound that takes Sam back to the cabin – to that night - to Dad sprawled across Ross’s knees – to his own frantic pleas: _Ross, c’mon, c’mon, littlest bro, we gotta get Dean to a hospital, you gotta help me –_

He swallows, burning heat behind his eyes, hot and scalding tears, lump in his throat.

He’s rooted to the spot, but Dean is already moving. Dean rounds the desk, forces Ross’s chair around, leans down and gathers Ross up, pulls him in close, enfolds him in himself, and Ross just goes, just falls into Dean. Ross presses his face to Dean’s stomach, winds his arms around Dean’s waist, and holds on. Sam can remember this, can picture Ross at six years old: Ross sitting at the kitchen table, crying into his grilled cheese, Ross turning to grab onto Dean as Dean passed by, Ross pressing his dirty sticky six-year-old face into Dean’s shirt, Ross winding his skinny arms around Dean’s waist and holding on tight.

Sam watches his two brothers through blurred vision: Dean’s shoulders are bowed, body hunched protectively over Ross, one arm around his little brother’s shoulders and the other in his hair, gently, so gently carding through the thick dark strands. Sam hears the wracked, terrible sound of Ross’s sobs, only half muffled by Dean’s shirt, hears the soft shaky whisper of Dean’s voice, _“It’s okay, I’ve gotcha, I’m here, Ross, I’ve gotcha. It’ll be okay, it’s alright, I’m here and I still love you –“_

Sam lifts his hand to his face, presses his palm to his mouth, trying to push the grief back inside, bottle it back up. He drags his eyes away from Dean and Ross, and notices vacantly that Sarah’s watching them too, that she’s pushed her chair away from the desk and is watching them with watery eyes, a dimmed horror and sorrow in her expression.

He forces himself to move, comes round the other side of the desk, places one reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, c’mon, let’s go get some coffee. It’s okay, they’ll be okay, they just need to...” he breaks off, jerks his hand, the words catching at the back of his throat.

She nods, gets up stiffly from her chair; he follows her out of the room. Dean and Ross don’t even look up.

 

 

 

“So, I take it, things are not good,” she says after they’ve taken a seat in the deserted break-room. The other employees have left, the shop closed.

He laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“Ross said – your dad.”

“Killed by a demon, yes, I told you that on the phone,” he interrupts. He doesn’t want to hear her sympathy, not now, not yet. “But it’s, uh, it’s more complicated than that. A lot more complicated than that.”

She nods, takes another long sip of her coffee. “Yeah, I kinda figured that out.”

“Right.” He pauses, carefully places his cup back on his saucer; his hands are shaking, he notices absently. It’s only slight, barely noticeable, but it’s there – his hands are shaking, like an old man's. “So, how, uh, how has he been doin’? Has he said anything to you?”

She blows out a breath. “I don’t know. He’s – most of the time he seems okay, I think he’s really trying so hard.” She smiles faintly, and there’s obvious affection there. She raises her hand, smoothes it over her hair, straightening her ponytail. “He has nightmares,” she says quietly, giving him a piercing look, as if she’s divulging a secret, “he says things sometimes, shouts things out when he’s asleep. They don’t make much sense, though I guess nightmares don’t.”

His stomach cramps up, he swallows, throat getting tighter. Shit. Visions? Is Ross having visions?

“What kind of things?” he finally manages to force out.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure that he knows, that he remembers. It’s – he saw your father die, Sam. I think the nightmares are part of that. He’s very different from how he was before. I think he has PTSD.”

She says it so seriously that he kinda wants to laugh, because, well, yeah, duh, Sarah. Ross has PTSD. Fuck, they _all_ have PTSD; Dean has had it since he was four years old, and after the shit the three of them have seen over the years -

Jesus, PTSD. It’d be a relief if that was all it was. He’d take PTSD over demonic death visions any day; at least you can treat PTSD.

“It goes with the job. Some of the things we’ve seen –“ he breaks off, gives a shrug. “Well, you saw for yourself.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “But this is different.”

He wonders for a moment just how much Ross has told her – did he tell her _how_ Dad died? He told her it was a demon that killed Dad, and that’s sort of true, well, it _is_ true, though it wasn’t technically the demon that pulled the trigger. Somehow he very much doubts that Ross has told her that.

“Have you ever – any of you - ” she breaks off, hesitates, then continues, “ever thought about maybe seeing a professional?”

“A shrink? Yeah, right! You know they’d just want to institutionalize us. Soon as we start tellin’ the truth.”

She nods, smiles wanly. “I guess you have a point.”

They go quiet again; he sees her fidget and glance over her shoulder towards the closed office door.

“It’s okay,” he tells her. “They’ll be okay. Dean has it covered. Dean is – well, Dean always knows how to deal with Ross. He’s always been Ross’s go-to person.”

“And that doesn’t bother you at all?”

“Why would it bother me?”

“Well, your boyfriend and your brother. I’m not saying that there’s anything going on because of course there isn’t, but they obviously have this extremely close relationship. I’m impressed that you’re so calm and objective about it.”

He’s momentarily bewildered, confused by her words, because calm and objective? He’s never been calm or objective where Dean and Ross are concerned in his entire life. Even now, even when he can see that this is the best thing to do – let Dean handle Ross as he’s always done – he’s still bothered; he’s still pissed at being left on the other side of the door.

He knows he’s being ridiculous, he was the one who decided to give Ross and Dean some space, but he’s their brother too and Dad was his father too. But he’s outside the door; he’s always outside the door when it’s Ross and Dean. He knows he has to let Dean do his thing, fix them, console and calm and wipe away tears; fix scrapes and tend bruises and tell them he’s got it, that it’s all okay and he has their backs. Dean is Ross’s emotional rock, he always has been.

Of course Sarah doesn’t know any of this. Sarah still thinks Dean is just his boyfriend, an old family friend.

He’s seriously considering telling her the truth, trying to figure out the words he needs to explain, when the office door creaks open. He sees Ross come out, followed closely by Dean, Dean’s hand on Ross’s shoulder, guiding him towards them. Ross’s eyes are pink and watery, his face red and blotchy, ugly with tears. Dean’s eyes are wet too, his face pale, though he’s not ugly, Dean never looks ugly when he cries; it’s a gift, and not one that he and Ross share.

“Hey, Sammy,” Ross says when he reaches their table.

He’s on his feet before he realizes it, turning and enveloping Ross in a painfully tight hug. He feels Ross stiffen, then slowly relax, sink into him.

“Missed you, you little shit,” he whispers into his little brother’s ear. His voice sounds strange in his ears, choked up and raspy.

“Oh, Sammy, such a bitch,” Ross murmurs back, his voice equally choked up.

Sam laughs, shaky but exhilarated, and feels his brother’s smile against the side of his face.

 

 

[Next Chapter](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/32031.html)


	22. Chapter 22

Ross goes out into the parking lot for a smoke, nerves all jumpy and hands still shaking. He’s only been there a couple of minutes before he sees Dean come out of the gallery, crossing the lot with his hands thrust in his pockets, shoulders hunched up in that stompy walk of his. 

“Hey,” he greets Dean.

Dean nods, but his eyes are totally fixated on the cigarette, all beady and addict-y. It’s pretty pathetic.

“Give me some of that,” Dean says.

He shakes his head, smirks at his brother. “Nope. Sammy’ll totally have my balls. He told me you’re not supposed to be smoking.”

It’s kinda funny the way Dean’s eyes go all squinty, that half-disbelieving look that makes him look a little retarded. “When the fuck did he say that?”

“Just now, like, before, in there.” Ross jerks his head towards the building. “I was just heading out for a smoke and he said, and I quote: _if Dean asks for one, don’t let him, his lungs need to heal…_ ” He gives Dean a bland serious look: “Dude, you’ve got a keeper there.”

“Fuck you, you goddamn traitor.”

“Hey, I’m just looking out for you, Deano, just doing you a favor,” he tells him, but Dean’s not impressed, turning to rest his arms on the roof of the minivan – the freaking minivan - and lowering his chin to his folded arms to stare out across the parking lot, at the car dealership on the other side of the road.

“I still can’t believe you drove all the way from Bobby’s in this piece of crap,” he says after a moment’s silence.

Dean jerks his chin up, frowns. “Huh?”

“A freakin’ minivan. You drove a minivan across half the country. It’s fucking priceless!”

“I didn’t drive it, Sam let me drive about an hour tops. He drove it.”

Ross chuckles, “Man, you’re so fuckin’ whipped. It ain’t even funny.”

“Shut up.” But there’s no heat in Dean’s voice, just that familiar indulgent big brother thing. Ross smiles around his cigarette, takes one last long drag. He’s missed this – missed Dean – he’s barely even let himself think about Dean or Sam since he’s been here, he’s deleted all their references from his head like his internet porn history. It’s such a fucking relief to let himself think about them again, to not force his brain into this place it doesn’t want to go. He flicks his butt to the ground, grinds it out with the heel of his boot. He can feel Dean’s eyes on him, that big brother concerned look that’s followed him around his entire life.

He glances up, grins at his brother, sees Dean’s mouth twitch and his eyes crinkle as he slowly grins back; it was like the sun coming out, he used to think when he was a kid. And it’s a totally cheesy, lame-ass description, but that was how it used to feel when he was seven years old and desperately needing his big brother’s approval. It still feels like that.

“Hey, c’mere,” Dean says.

He comes around the side of the car, feeling suddenly self-conscious as Dean fastens his fingers in his jacket and pulls him in, tossing one arm around his neck and giving him a noogie, knuckles dusting through his hair.

“Missed you, you little shit,” Dean whispers, like, exactly the same damn words Sammy said to him, and he can feel the stupid tears again, his eyes misting up. “Missed you so fucking much,” Dean repeats, his voice hitching.

He pulls reluctantly away from his brother, blinking and catching a glance at his reflection in the minivan’s back window: his hair’s a fucking disgrace and he looks red-faced and blubbery. Jesus, he seriously needs to get his shit together.

“I missed you too,” he manages to say.

Dean’s watching him, a warm concerned look in his eyes, his mouth tense and worried, and God, it hurts – seeing that in Dean’s face, the evidence of what he’s put his brother through, what he’s taken away from both him and Sam. It’s physically painful, how Dean can make him feel small and wrong and desperate inside, hating himself so goddamn much because he can’t stand knowing that he was the one to hurt Dean. And he kinda, just, like, wants to hurt Dean back, wants to hit him, punch him in the face, let him feel it too, ‘cause it’s just too fucking much, it's not normal to feel like this, but it’s him, not Dean, it’s him, it’s how he’s all fucked-up inside, how he’s too pathetic and dependent.

Dean clears his throat, and brushes the back of his hand against his mouth. “So, uh, what kinda car's Sarah got then?”

He blinks, not really registering the question, still trying to get his shit right.

“Ross?”

“Huh?”

“Just asked you – what car your girlfriend’s driving’?”

“Oh, right, right, yeah, it’s, uh, a Prius.”

“A freakin’ hybrid?”

He feels like bristling, like getting pissed on Sarah’s behalf. She cares about shit, about the environment and carbon emissions and she’s got ethics – it’s kinda cute.

“Yeah, a freakin’ hybrid, Dean,” he snaps.

Dean raises one eyebrow, that annoying superior look of his that’s just – guh – so freaking annoying, but it’s so Dean, and Dean’s here and God, he’s missed him.

“I think it’s hot that she cares about shit,” he says. “She’s, like, really political, reads all this clever shit. She’s doing her bit for the environment, man, give her a damn break already.”

Her life is so different from what he’s used to. None of them have ever really cared about real life stuff, about politics or activism or whether it’s a Republican or a Democrat douchebag who's in charge. Maybe Sam used to care about that kinda shit when he was in college and he can vaguely remember Sam talking about politics when he was in high school, but it never mattered. It was irrelevant to them; so totally unimportant compared with the real evil they deal with, the kinda shit that normal folk only see on TV or in the movies.

But, still, Sarah does care. She cares about who’s running the country, she cares about Iraq and gay marriage and health care reform. And it’s kinda – it _is_ a turn on that she has opinions, that she’s intelligent and independent and her own boss (at least when her father's not around). She could have anyone she wants, but she wants him, it’s awesome.

“Whatever,” says Dean. He resists the urge to roll his eyes; Dean’s such a size queen when it comes to cars. Hell, not just cars.

They go quiet again, until Ross hears voices. It's Sarah and Sam standing in front of the gallery, Sam waiting for Sarah to lock up.

“Ready to go?” Sarah asks when she and Sam reach them. She bows her head and starts rooting around in that enormous fucking purse she likes to cart around everywhere for her car keys. “You guys should follow me, it’s not far.”

“Yours is the Prius, right?” Dean asks, bullshit grin hovering at the edge of his mouth.

Ross feels his teeth set and he darts his brother an annoyed glare, hissing: “Shut up.”

Sarah blinks, looking confused, though Sammy’s not, he’s totally giving Dean some major side-eye – which yeah, too freaking right, Deano, you’re the one driving the fucking _minivan_ here.

“Right, yes, that’s right, mine’s the Prius,” she says. “Ross, baby, you want to ride with me or with your brother and Dean?”

“With you,” he says. Like there’s even a contest, not while Dean’s acting like such an ass.

Sarah talks as they ride back to her place, makes conversation about what they can have for dinner, what beer Dean and Sam like to drink, whether she should stop off at Blockbuster and maybe rent them some action movies ‘cause she’s pretty sure there’s nothing on the Tivo that’ll appeal to two butch, tough-guy, gay-ass hunters like Dean and Sam. She says nothing about how long they’ll be staying, whether or not he’s gonna skip town with them or what’s gonna happen next.

In truth, he has no freaking idea what’s gonna happen next. He’s happy to see them, obviously, really fucking happy to see them; he’s missed them to a stupid degree. But the idea of heading back out on the road, packing up his shit and leaving tomorrow, heading back to Bobby’s or wherever with Dean and Sam?

Man, he doesn’t know, but he’s not sure he’s ready for that yet. Going back to hunting, going back to real life, just him and Dean and Sammy, just the three of them for the rest of their lives, (however long they last). 

Just the three of them, no one else, no Dad.

No, he’s not gonna think about that. This is good. Now – what this is - this is okay. It’s different, it’s, like, an entirely different kinda life, nothing like real life, _his_ real life. This is good.

He grips the side of the seat and stares out the passenger window as they cruise slowly down the main street; Sarah’s sticking to the speed limit and he can practically hear Dean bitching under his breath about chicks driving cars as Dean and Sam tailgate them all the way back to her place.

 

***************

 

 

In the end, they order Chinese and make their way through the couple of six packs in Sarah’s refrigerator before Ross is forced to head out for more beer. He’s forgotten how much Sam and Dean can drink when they’re in the mood. He’s not been in the mood for drinking past few days and Sarah, well, she’s a chick, it’s different. When he gets back, the three of them are still sitting around the kitchen table, Chinese take-out cartons and dirty plates stacked on the side by the sink, and Sam and Sarah are in the middle of some sort of heated debate about – well – he’s not entirely sure what about, while Dean’s leafing through the local paper, looking bored.

They barely notice him come in, Sam and Sarah too involved in their serious debate about whatever, and Dean too into his newspaper, obits column probably, the big freak. Ross opens the refrigerator and stacks the beers inside, Sarah’s voice washing over him, all earnest and drunk and a little slurred, and not making that much sense to him: _“It’s not that I don’t respect their religion because of course I do, I have the utmost respect for every religion… Of course I accept that, Sam… but it’s an incredibly cruel way to kill an animal… I’d prefer to know that the steak I’m about to eat has been ethically slaughtered.”_

“Oh man, don’t tell me you’re one of them freaky PETA weirdos,” Dean interrupts, folding up his newspaper with all this over-the-top rustling and eye-rolling.

“What? No, of course not!” she snaps. “They’re completely deranged. And it would be pretty hypocritical of me after eating crispy duck. I was just making a point about ethical animal slaughter. I think it’s very misleading when stores or restaurants serve halal meat without informing their customers that what they’re eating is in fact halal meat.”

“Seriously? Dude, c’mon, how many freakin’ Muslims are there in this town? I bet there's no restaurant in this place that even sells halal meat,” Dean scoffs.

Ross closes the refrigerator and leans back against it, crossing his arms. “What the fuck is halal meat?”

The argument comes to a screeching halt – like a goddamn lost radio signal, and Sam laughs and shakes his head, while Dean looks amused and Sarah blinks at him, looking shocked, like he’s just admitted that he doesn’t know what a freaking blowjob is and not that he doesn’t know about some weird-ass religious thing.

“Um, halal meat is meat that’s been slaughtered in a specific way according to religious law,” Sam explains, and he’s using that slow my-brother’s-a-dumb-fuck voice that Ross just _hates_ while Sarah’s still looking kinda embarrassed like she’s ashamed she’s banging some retarded high school dropout, and he wishes desperately that he’d kept his fucking mouth shut. “They bleed the animals slowly without stunning them. Some animal rights groups say that it’s cruel.”

“It is cruel,” insists Sarah.

Sam shrugs. “That’s still up for debate. But that’s not really the point here.”

“So what’s the point, Sam?” She leans forward, chin on her hand, her head tilted his way and a smile playing at the edges of her mouth, eyes fixed on Sam, like she’s hanging onto his every word. 

“I’m just saying, if you’re gonna get pissed about animal rights, then there’s far worse shit to get pissed off about – like battery farming for example.”

Sarah waves her hand, “Yeah, yeah, I agree, that’s why I only buy organic free-range meat and eggs.”

“Yeah, but you just ate Chinese take-out. It’s a fair assumption that the meat you ate probably didn’t come from an ethical source,” says Sam.

“Okay, yeah. You got me. Ugh, Goddamnit – why’s it so damn hard to be ethical these days?” She purses her lips and drops her head into her hands with a dramatic groan.

Sam laughs and grins at her – fucking dimples, full-wattage smile. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that. We’ve never been ethical in our lives,” he says, and he’s using that coy flirtatious nice-boy voice, and man, that totally isn’t fair – is Sam _flirting_ with her? Seriously? Man, that is way out of fucking line.

But what the fuck does he expect? Sam is way more her sort of guy that he could ever be. Sam is closer to her age and he’s super smart and went to college and can have clever artsy-fartsy debates about politics and religion while Ross is a high school drop out with no qualifications and no freaking idea who is Secretary of State or what the capital of Iran is or what the hell halal meat is, apparently. And she went after Sam first, he hasn’t forgotten that, when they first met, it was Sam she went after, not him.

He sips on his beer and glowers to himself as he watches the two of them start talking again, words like nuclear and deterrent and Gaza and Zionists drifting over the table towards them, Sarah’s face all flushed and excited, her hands gesturing and her body angled towards Sam.

“Dude, what’s with the long face?”

He jumps as Dean kicks the side of his boot. He turns his head and scowls at his brother, sees Dean’s face, all smug and annoying and amused.

“Fuck off,” he mutters under his breath.

Dean snorts, “Whatever. Stop sulking and beer me already.”

Ross rolls his eyes, but he does get up and grab a couple of beers from the refrigerator, handing one off to Dean who nods and gives him that fake douchebag grin. “And sit down, making me all uncomfortable, fuckin’ hovering around up there.”

He sinks to the empty chair beside Dean, snaps the cap on his bottle, glares at his brother.

“Dude, you need to chill the fuck out,” Dean says. His voice is low and easy and he adjusts his posture in the chair, slumping backwards and spreading his legs so his thigh brushes against Ross’s. He tilts his head, gives Ross a sideways look, “You’re harshing my buzz, seriously. Quit it with the jealous bitch routine. Sammy ain’t gonna steal your girl.”

He scowls harder, resists the temptation to snap back at Dean ‘cause that’ll just make it worse. Instead he settles for glaring some more. He sneaks another glance at Sarah and Sam; the two of them seem totally oblivious to the non-intellectuals around the table. She’s completely focused on Sam, all flushed and eager and gesturing, her mouth running on, and she’s never – well, he’s never ever seen her like that with him.

Dean shakes his head at him, his lip curling in this fond way. “You don’t gotta worry, Littlest Bro, don't I always have your back?”

Ross makes a scoffing sound and tears viciously at the label on his beer bottle.

Dean purses his lips, then he leans over the table and places one hand on top of Sam’s forearm.

Sam jumps, attention flipping immediately away from Sarah and onto Dean – where it fucking belongs. Ross watches Dean give that slow, seductive smile, as he drawls: “Just thinkin’, we should hit the sack soon, man.” His eyes go heavy lidded and he licks his lips, eyes locked on Sam’s.

It’s almost kinda funny watching Dean so blatantly playing Sam, ‘cause Sammy is just... man, Sammy’s totally taken, hooked and everything. He might joke about how freaking whipped Dean is, but Sam’s just as bad, maybe worse. They’re both so totally gone for each other, and it’s weird how it’s, like, inspiring and depressing and deeply, deeply disturbing all at the same time.

Sam nods, licks his lips, his face reddening as he stammers: “Uh, yeah, yeah, we should. We – yeah – we definitely should do that.”

“Right,” says Dean. He grins, withdraws his hand and takes one last pull on his beer. He sets the half-finished bottle down solidly on the kitchen table with a soft thunk, then pushes his chair back. “Sarah, thank you so much for dinner and for your charming hospitality, but I am beat.”

“It was take-out, which you paid for,” she says, waving her hand in this airy, drunken way.

Dean shrugs and comes round the table, standing right behind Sam’s chair, like way into his space, as usual. He puts his hand on Sam’s shoulder as Sam finishes up his drink and says, “Yeah, but you’re putting us up – and this place, dude, it’s about a million fuckin’ times better than most of the dumps we’ve stayed in.”

“Damn straight,” snorts Sam. He pushes his own chair back and gets to his feet, placing one of his enormous hands on the back of Dean’s neck, fingers brushing delicately at the short hairs there, like he’s just getting warmed up. “Night all.”

“Night!” Sarah calls after them.

Ross watches them through the open kitchen doorway, sees them head into the hallway and pause outside the guest bedroom door. Sam’s still got his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, and as Dean turns the handle, Sam leans closer, presses his lips to Dean’s cheek and whispers something. The last thing Ross hears is Dean’s low dirty chuckle before they close the door behind them.

He bites his lip and turns his attention back to Sarah.

“You want a hand clearing up?” he asks ‘cause yeah, Sam and Dean totally fucked off to bed and left the dishes to them to deal with, though why is he even surprised? They’ve always been slobs.

She blows out a breath and groans, “Ugh, no. Not now. Leave it for the morning, baby.”

She heads towards her – their room (can he really call it their room – it feels weird to do so) while he shoves the empty take-out cartons into the recycling. He feels bad leaving everything to the morning and he’s still feeling sober, and not tired, his brain still working away, still fucking tormenting him.

Dean totally called him a jealous bitch, fucking Dean, fucking asshole. At least he would know. Fucking jealous, yeah, whatever, Dean, take a look in the fucking mirror sometime, dude. He ain’t jealous. What’s he got to be jealous about? Sarah and Sam – yeah, right. Sam is totally gay; hell, he thinks Sam is totally gay, evidence says that Sam is totally gay. Okay, so there was Jess, poor hot dead Jessica, but apart from her, there’s only ever been one person for Sam, only one person who turns Sammy’s crank. He’s heard it from Dean’s own mouth: Sam’s been into Dean since he was fourteen years old. Sam is a crazy monogamous brother-fucker.

And anyway, this is Sam. Sam would never do anything with Sarah; Sam would never steal his brother’s girl. Sam’s not that guy. Sam would never do anything to deliberately hurt him, Sam has his back.

He stands over the sink, stares down at the gleaming chrome. Well, seeing as he’s awake, seeing as his brain won’t fucking quit, he may as well make himself useful. He twists on the taps, reaching to add a generous squirt of detergent to the hot water. He tries to clear his mind as he slowly soaps and wipes the dishes, but the look on Sarah’s face as she talked with Sam keeps floating up into his mind, his stupid, obsessive, possibly _jealous_ , (okay, Deano, I’ll give you that), mind.

He ain’t worried about Sam. But Sarah –

She might be genuinely into Sam. She’s attracted to Sam, he can see that, saw it tonight in the way she was looking at him. And it’s understandable, it’s almost kinda flattering; he and Sam look alike, enough alike for her to dig Sam physically as much as she physically digs him. But – Sam’s older, taller, bigger than him; Sam’s built and he’s packing, boy, is he ever, his brother’s cock is a fucking monster. Sam can do everything he can do: Sam can shoot and fight and protect innocent people from monsters. But Sam can do more than that – he can read Latin and Sanskrit, he likes reading for fun and he knows words with more than three syllables and he can debate shit and he’s got that face – that trust-me big-eyes, handsome-boy face that chicks just can’t get enough of.

He swallows, pushes away the thoughts. Fuck it. He’s not gonna think about this anymore. Sam’s not interested in Sarah and she’s probably not interested in Sam. He’s just being paranoid. Dean’s totally right, he’s acting like a pathetic jealous bitch.

He finishes up quickly, stacking the dishes in the drying rack and snapping off the lights; Sarah’s pretty fierce about unnecessary electricity consumption, he found that out on the first night when she scolded him for leaving his cell-phone plugged in all night to charge.

 

************************************

 

“Ohh, did you do the dishes?” she murmurs as he slides into bed. “You didn’t have to do the dishes, babe.”

“Nah, s’fine,” he answers. “I was still feelin’ all awake and shit. Something to do.”

“Oh, okay,” she sighs. She shifts onto her side so she’s facing him. She smells clean, fresh, like cucumber, that moisturizer that she likes to use before going to bed. She has this routine; he’s watched her do it every night since he’s been here. The first night she was all embarrassed, it was kinda cute, like, intimate, watching her take off her make-up and go through all her routine, all the shit she puts on her face before going to bed. It was such a chick thing, so weird and different; he doesn’t think any of them have ever used moisturizer on their faces in their entire lives. They put shit on their hands, they always have, and Dean’s bought the same heavy duty shit for years, the same brand Dad always got. If he closes his eyes he can almost remember Dad’s face, remember that alert, serious look in his eyes, smell the weird oily waxy scent of it, feel Dad's thick powerful fingers as he worked the heavy-duty moisturizer into Ross's small 10-year old fingers, _Gotta keep your hands in good shape, Ross, my boy, they’re your best weapon. Nothing more important to a hunter than his hands…_

He flinches, overwhelmed for what feels like a long moment, Dad’s warm deep voice, his words echoing around his head. He blinks, forces the memory away, staring blankly at Sarah, at her clean shiny face. She looks hazy, her eyes glazed and glassy – she’s wasted. She’s wasted but she obviously still managed to get through her routine. It’s kinda impressive, and it reminds him of their own routines, how no matter how fucked they get on alcohol, pot, bar-fights, hunts or each other, they still remember their routines: salt lines and sigils, knives under the pillows and shotguns on the nightstand. He wonders if Dean and Sam set up salt-lines tonight, if they carved sigils into Sarah’s fine carpentry.

“Ugh, I feel really, _really_ drunk,” she slurs.

He laughs quietly, “Yeah. Kinda got that.”

She makes a face. “Hmmm, whole fucking room’s spinning. Stop it from spinning, Ross.”

“Did you have some water?”

“Yeah.”

“Have some more.”

She groans, but levers herself up into a sitting position. He reaches to turn on the lamp on the nightstand, then carefully picks up the glass of water he placed on his own nightstand and holds it out for her. She takes it from him with a flicker of a smile. “Thanks, babe. You’re awesome.”

“I know that,” he says.

She rolls her eyes, then groans some more, and takes a big gulp.

Dean used to get wasted all the time – in those two and a half years when Sammy was gone – Dean would often get wasted. Usually he could deal with himself, but sometimes Ross would have to be there, sometimes he’d have to roll Dean into bed and pull off his boots, put him on his side so he wouldn’t choke on his own vomit, place the alka seltzer and water on the nightstand, wrestle him out of his coat, if he could. It was always worse in the mornings; Dean would be hungover and pissed, glowering at everybody, but especially him, resenting Ross for seeing him like that, and angry at himself for letting to get to that state.

Thank God, Dean hasn’t been that drunk in a long time, and now, well if he does get wasted like that then he guesses that it’s Sam’s responsibility. Dean doesn’t need him anymore, though Sarah obviously does and he’s kinda enjoying it – playing the nice, helpful boyfriend – it’s a helluva lot better than being Dean’s unwanted caretaker.

She finishes off the entire glass, then sinks back into the pillows with a groan.

“Feel better?” he asks.

“Yeah, thanks. You’re awesome.”

“I know. You told me already.”

“Well, it bears repeating.” She turns her head and watches him slide back under the covers through half-lidded eyes, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “So, what’s with Littlest Bro? Is that a nickname? Cause I swear I heard Dean call you that about a million times tonight.”

He freezes for a second, feeling the fake smile fix on his face. “Uh, yeah, yeah. He, uh, ‘cause I’m, like, Sam’s little brother. Littlest Bro, you know? Kinda unimaginative, right? But Dean’s just – well, he ain’t exactly Brainiac.”

“Aww, I think it’s cute. The way you guys are so close – you and Dean. It’s cute.”

“Oh yeah, yeah, we’re close I guess,” he says.

She grins broadly for a second, then bites her lip, like she’s trying to stifle something, like she’s got this private joke that she’s embarrassed about.

“What?” he asks.

She tilts her head and smirks at him. “Nothing, just thinking about something.”

“What?”

“You’ll think I’m a pervert if I tell you.”

“Well then you definitely gotta fuckin’ tell me!”

She smirks, presses her tongue into her cheek. “I was just wondering: you and Dean – have you ever…” she lifts an eyebrow, “you know… _done_ anything together? One night after a close call perhaps? When you’re both drunk on adrenalin and you’re patching each other’s wounds up. Back when Sam was at college and it was just the two of you in one small motel room? No one else around to know about it?”

His first thought is: _wow, she’s really given this some thought_ ; his second is: _fuck_.

He can feel his stupid face heat up, knows that even in this low lamplight she can see the blush, that she’ll totally read him and figure it out. And yeah: her eyes go wide – well, _wider_ – like astonished and she giggles, raises her hand to her mouth.

“Oh my God! You have, haven’t you? You and Dean! Oh my God, that’s so hot.”

Well, okay then, better that kinda reaction than, well, any other.

“Does Sam know?”

A flashback of Sam’s face leaning over his, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, tongue darting out to lick around his lips, sly smile and brilliant white teeth, slanted eyes fixed his, Sam sliding down his body and nuzzling at his cock, Sam’s tongue licking up the length of his shaft, Sam’s mouth wrapping around the head –

Uh, yeah…

“He, uh, yeah, he knows,” he says finally.

“Shit! Really?”

“Yeah. He, uh, we felt bad, we had to tell him. He forgave us.”

“He loves you both,” she says seriously, her eyebrows drawing together in this exaggerated, super-serious drunken way. “Anyone can see that – how much he loves you and Dean.”

“I guess.”

His stomach gives a lurch, tightening up, thinking of the imaginary Sam he’s just conjured up – the one that Sarah will be thinking of right now – imaginary Sam who loves him and Dean so much that he’s willing to forgive his only brother and his beloved boyfriend for hooking up with each other.

He swallows and blinks, feeling stupidly emotional. Fucking Sam, fucking _imaginary_ Sam.

He bites his lip and raises his eyes to hers. She smiles, grin broadening slowly, getting kinda sly. “Still though, you and Dean – it’s fucking hot.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. You’re really hot and he’s really hot and I really want to know everything. Babe, seriously, don’t hold out on me here!”

He grins, man, she totally said he was hot, she really thinks he’s hot, and yeah, he kinda knows it already, but she’s all drunk and people always say true shit when they’re drunk. Man, she totally digs him. And okay so she also said that she thought Dean was really hot, but whatever, everyone always thinks that.

“Well, uh, we were – drunk,” he says. She nods eagerly. “And we were at this bar - me and Dean – and it was, uh, this gay bar. Sammy wasn’t around. So, it was, like, just me and Dean at this bar, he was flirting with this dude, gettin’ him to buy him drinks, and there was this other dude who was, like, really into me, and kept buyin’ me drinks, ‘cept I wasn’t into him, ‘cause he was, like, old –“ he breaks off, makes a face.

She laughs, says, “How old?”

“I dunno, like 35 at least, probably older. You know, _old_.” He makes another face to emphasize it. He’s remembering now, thinking about that first time with Dean – the gay-bar, the men’s room – that guy who’d come onto him - showing-off for Dean –

“Okay, so what happened?” she says, all eager, like, hanging onto his every word.

He blows out a breath, “Right, yeah, so I wasn’t into this dude, like, at all. And I was tryin’ to get away from him, so I, like, said that I had a boyfriend who knew kung-fu.”

Sarah snorts slightly, raising her hand to her mouth to cover her amusement. “Kung-fu?”

He shrugs, “Whatever, I was drunk. And you know, we do know some martial arts shit. Dad taught us. Dean’s pretty good at hand-to-hand, so I figured that he could, like, totally take this creep – which he could. So, yeah, I was pretending that Dean was my boyfriend, ‘cept Deano then totally ruined it by making out with this other dude who was buying him drinks, like, way to blow my cover, fucking asshole. And that just made me all pissed, so soon as I saw Dean go into the men’s room, I followed him in. I just – I don’t know, but, I was _pissed_ , and drunk and I just – I just reacted, I, like, grabbed onto him and pushed him into one of the stalls.” He swallows, sees her eyes darken, eyelashes flutter and cheeks flush as she shifts even closer, mattress creaking, she reaches out, slides her hand up his bare arm, hairs rising, cock rising too, shifting and thickening in his boxers. He thinks about that time – the rattling partitions – Dean there in front of him, lips shiny with saliva from that other guy - Dean watching him with wide wary eyes, like he knew exactly what was coming next –

“I just – I was. I wanted so badly what Sam had. I was so fed-up of always being the one on the outside, and I just – it wasn’t fair, ‘cause Sam’d left him, and it was me and Dean, and he never took me seriously, never thought of me like he thought of Sammy, and I just – I wanted him too–“

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” she interrupts. He squeezes his eyes closed, feels her draw closer, feels her push the covers away and move to straddle him. He can see Dean’s face, the devastated, defeated look on his brother’s face when he pushed his mouth on Dean’s.

“Ross, open your eyes.”

He holds his breath, tenses as he feels her hand on his chest, her small warm hand slide down his chest and belly, down towards his stupid hard cock.

“Look at me, Ross,” she repeats.

Slowly, he opens his eyes. She’s staring at him, her body so warm through her thin cotton pajamas, her hand hovering over his cock.

“It’s okay, you know. I don’t judge you. I shouldn’t’ve asked, it was my fault.”

He makes a bitter huffing sound, ‘cause Jesus, Sarah, you don’t fucking know the half of it, you have no fucking clue. If she did know – if she knew the truth about the three of them, about the past few months, about their incestuous freakshow of a life.

She’d never want to touch him again.

“I understand, it’s okay,” she repeats. “You love Dean, and that was just a way of showing him that. It’s understandable, baby, I get it. And Sam forgave you. No permanent damage done. Everybody makes mistakes, especially mistakes like that.”

“No,” he whispers, “no, no, you don’t – it ain’t – it’s so much worse than that. We’re so fucked up.”

She sits back a little, like she wants to get a better look at him. It’s too much, too close and he ducks his head, stares down at her thighs where they’re straddling him in her blue flower-patterned pajamas, her knees on the mattress either side of his hips, her ass so curvy and hot and fucking sweet, her hand still hovering over his cock – his stupid still-hard cock. He stares at her hand, looking weird in the lamplight, the shadows cast between them, trying to figure out why it does look so weird. It’s too small, he thinks suddenly, it’s too small and too dainty, fingers too short, not like Sam’s enormous man-paws or Dean’s strong capable fingers.

He raises his head, meeting her gaze head on. She still looks drunk, eyes still hazy and dark, but crinkled slightly, a concerned look that reminds him so much of Dean. He swallows, reaches up, cups the back of her head and forces her forward into a long kiss.

She resists at first, but he raises his other hand, cradles her face, keeping her in place as he works his best make-out magic, lips and tongue and teeth and the whole fucking shebang. She gives in quickly, moaning and sinking into him, raising her hand to tangle in his hair, the other snaking under his waistband to flutter her fingertips around his cock.

He gasps and rocks into her, feels her furtive little grin against his mouth as her fingers encircle and fist his cock.

“You’re hard,” she breathes, “you’re so damn hard, baby.”

“Well, duh,” he pants back.

She laughs throatily and throws back her head, giving him access to her neck and throat. She loves being kissed there, loves it when he sucks gently on her shoulders, on the hollow of her throat; it’s why she’s taken to wearing so many freaking scarves recently.

She pulls away, lips all red and sticky, eyeing him with a glazed drunken sorta gleam to her eyes. She grins at him then turns her head, reaching out with fumbling hands for the condoms in the top drawer of her nightstand. She exclaims out loud when she finds one, all drunken euphoria.

“Shh,” he hisses, “they’ll hear us.”

She turns her head, eyes widening; then her mouth curls upwards, grin getting wicked. “Don’t you want them to hear us? Are you embarrassed?”

“Fuck no!”

She laughs, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet apartment, and he grins back at her, feeling as drunk as she is, ‘cause yeah, let ‘em overhear, let ‘em get a taste of their own freaking medicine. Fucking payback for all those nights when he’d been forced to listen to them going at it, Sam and Dean, Sam and Dean, all the fucking time… Sam and Dean trying to be quiet as they jerk each other off under the covers with muffled giggles, Sam and Dean crashing and smashing and flailing around in the shower while he’s trying to watch pay per view porn, Sam jerking Dean off as he drives ‘cause they think he’s gone to sleep in the backseat.

Yeah, let ‘em overhear, fucking assholes.

“Does that turn you on?” she hisses. “Knowing that they can hear us.”

He grins and takes the foil wrapped condom from her fingers. “You turn me on more.”

 

************************************

 

On the third night of Dean and Sam’s visit, he escapes outside onto the balcony for a smoke. Sarah doesn’t like him smoking indoors and can’t stand the way the smoke clings to his clothes, so he tosses on his jacket, zippers it up and heads out.

It’s been… well, it’s been kinda strained, the past few days. He’s been at the gallery most of the time, working with Sarah, helping her out, doing fucking Bill's job ‘cause he’s apparently still “sick”. Sam’s been happy enough with that arrangement, busy researching the entire time, (he doesn’t know what and doesn’t care), but Sam’s been spending all day at the town library – nothing new there – or hogging Sarah’s broadband connection with his laptop, or reading through a couple of books and some new journal that he’s picked up somewhere or another along the way, or on the phone to various authorities, doing his best cop impersonations.

As for Dean… well, Dean’s been bored. Dean’s been tagging along after Sam at the library, then getting bored there and coming along to the gallery and getting in the way. On a couple of occasions, he was sort of helpful, helping move and catalogue some big shipment of shit that came in, okay, so it wasn’t shit exactly, some sort of 19th Century French Furniture, and man, he can practically feel his balls shrivel up when he thinks about it, but yeah, Dean was around for that. But mostly, Dean’s been annoying – in both senses of the word.

He snorts to himself and leans over the balcony, arms crossed on the latticed concrete, turning his head so he can peer downwards, down to the streets and the park and the main street with its rows of stores still lit-up. They’re high up, well, 12th floor, which is high for New Paltz, there ain’t that many tall buildings in the town, it’s more a commuter, starter-home kinda place, all smart white collar folks like Sarah and the other professional stick up the ass losers who live in this building.

The door opens with a snick sound and he turns his head, sees Sam stepping outside, shrugging into his hoodie, a packet of Lucky Strikes in his hand. Huh, so obviously, Sam seems to have taken up the smoking habit full-time, or maybe this is just a freaking excuse for a fucking “talk”. Sam’s been angling for a “talk” the past three days; he knows that gleam in Sammy’s eyes. So yeah, he’s fucked, ‘cause he ain’t leaving his cigarette half-smoked, he’s never done that in his life.

Sam strides towards him, well, he takes, like, two enormous Sam-strides, the balcony ain’t that big, kinda cozy there with the two of them. He takes out a cigarette and lights it with Dean’s favorite Zippo and turns his head to give Ross that sideways grin, that we’re-in-this-together look.

“Nice view,” he comments.

Ross just grunts.

“This is a nice town, don’t you think?”

“I guess.”

“You like it here?”

“It’s alright,” he says.

Sam nods, and exhales a long stream of smoke, tilting his head back some, like he’s trying to look up at the stars.

“This is gonna sound like a strange question, but, uh, do you remember your mom?”

“Come again?”

Sam clears his throat, like he’s embarrassed, and says, “Do you remember your mother, Ross?”

“Dude, are you, like, quoting lines from fuckin’ Jedi here?”

“What?”

“You know, that dumb-ass scene at the fuckin’ Ewok barbecue when Luke is about to head off to confront Vader and Princess Leia follows him out and they have this gay little talk about her remembering her real Mom – even though, she, like, totally died in childbirth, so there’s no fuckin’ way Leia would remember her. Anyway, it’s totally the bit where he tells her that they’re, like, brother and sister and yeah, it sucks.”

Sam sighs manfully, like Ross has fucking offended him or something. “Look, forget about Star Wars for one damn second, I was trying to ask you a serious question: do you remember much about your mom?”

“Why d’you wanna know that?” He turns his head towards Sam, frowning, leaning on the trellis, arms crossed.

“Just wondering,” Sam says with a shrug, looking away from him, like he’s about to stare off into the distance in a manly kinda way. And that – it’s such a Sammy tell – Sam is totally hiding something.

“Bullshit. Tell me why you asked about my mom, Sam.”

There’s a long awkward pause, then Sam sighs again, all deep and patient and annoyingly Sam-ish. “Dad’s dead, Ross. Dad’s dead and he’s not coming back.” He hesitates, like he’s just realizing what he’s just said, and Ross feels the breath seep from his lungs, that hard lump in his chest like a rope wrapping around him, binding him up so he can’t breathe. He curls his fingers around the terrace, knuckles going white as he carefully breathes in and out, trying to steady himself. He stares down at the view, the lights shining against his blurred eyes, watches the cars making their way slowly down the main street, all of them sticking to the speed limit ‘cause it’s that kinda town.

He hears Sam draw closer to him, edging along the trellis, so their arms are almost brushing. “Dad –“ Sam starts again, then he stops, voice catching, like he’s thought better of it. Ross tenses, hears his brother swallow, suck on his cigarette. “Mom - mine and Dean’s mom – she’s dead, too. Dean and I – we have no parents left. But you, your mom could still be out there, she might be still alive.”

“I don’t care. She’s dead to me.” He says the words without thinking, like an instinctive retort. But he means it; he completely and utterly means it. He doesn’t care about his mom, she left him, she fucking _abandoned_ him when he was four years old. He’s never gonna forgive her for that.

“Ross, you don’t mean that –“

“Yeah, Sammy, yeah, I totally mean that!” he interrupts. He pulls away from his brother, takes the couple of steps to the table and chairs that sit out there, the glass ashtray full of his own cigarette butts from the past few nights ‘cause he’s been too lazy to empty it. He leans over and grinds out his cigarette, reaches automatically into his pocket for another one. And yeah, he knows, fucking chain-smoking, but this – he needs another cigarette.

“Ross –“ Sam starts again.

“Shut up, Sam, I don’t wanna talk about it!” He sinks into one of the chairs, dragging the plastic feet loudly against the stone flags of the balcony. “Fuck’s sake, will you fuckin’ drop it already? It’s none of your fuckin’ business! My mom’s dead, okay?”

He can feel Sam’s eyes on him, that concerned, worried look of his, that pitying look, and he hates it – he _fucking hates_ it.

“Okay,” Sam says finally, after what feels like an endless fucking silence, though it’s probably only a few seconds. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

“Good, you should be.”

Sam snorts in amusement, and when he looks up, Sam’s smiling at him, kinda fond and lame and totally gay. Sam comes towards him, pulls out the other chair, and sinks into it, leaning over to tip the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray.

“Dean wants to take off tomorrow,” Sam says after another long awkward silence.

He nods to himself, relieved at the change of subject. He ain’t surprised, three days is pretty much Dean’s limit. Unless they’re working a case or one of them’s injured then they never stick around longer than three days in one place, he doesn’t think they’ve stuck in one place for more than four days out of choice since Sam left for Stanford all those years ago.

“He wants to finish working on the car. He misses her,” Sam says with a shake of his head, but he’s also smiling in this wry sorta way, with that fond doting look that Sam always wears when he’s talking about Dean. It’s the sort of look that used to drive Ross crazy, that used to just eat him up inside, all the evidence of the SamnDean show in that one look. But now –

Whatever, nothing’s gonna change. And Sam and Dean are just this unyielding rock-like thing that’s always gonna be there, that’s never going to erode or change, like an old married couple Sarah said, and he agrees, he’s seen how they are together now, how set they are, how indifferent to everyone and everything else around them. Except him, he guesses he registers on their radar, but apart from him and the Impala, there’s nothing else that matters all that much to Dean and Sam.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to leave yet,” he says.

Sam nods, angles his head backwards and exhales, trying for a smoke ring. It’s fucking terrible.

“You suck at that,” he tells him.

“Yeah, I know,” shrugs Sam. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just smokes some more, then says, “I expected you’d say that. You like it here, don’t you? With Sarah?”

He turns and looks directly at Ross, like he’s looking into him, trying to read him in that way that he always does with Dean. It’s unnerving and annoying.

“I guess. I dunno - I ain’t ready to leave her yet.”

“I know,” Sam says quietly. “Dean won’t be happy.”

“Fuck him.”

“Yeah, well, you takin’ off before – he took it bad.”

He bites his lip, nods at his brother, ‘cause yeah, he fucking _knows_ that, Sam don’t need to tell him that he’s hurt Dean, all he ever seems to do is hurt Dean, all they ever seem to do – him, Sammy, Dad – is hurt Dean. Still, at least Dean’s used to it.

“But, don’t worry about that,” Sam continues, “that’s not your concern, Ross. You’ve got to do what’s right for you, I get that.” He’s using that extra-sincere Sammy voice of his, the magic one. “When I left, I knew I had to, it was what I had to do, and I know – it wasn’t perfect, it was a complete fuck-up and I regret it in some ways, but in others, I really, really don’t. It made me realize what I want out of life, what I’m supposed to be doing. And I know it’s cheesy, but it made me realize who I really am.”

Typical, Sam and his fucking find-yourself bullshit. Well, he doesn’t need to fucking find himself, he knows exactly who he is, he just – he just doesn’t know what he wants, he just knows that sticking around here and being with Sarah – it makes it easier, it gives him a reason to get up in the morning and get his shit together, to stop fucking thinking about everything, remembering everything -

If he’s with Sam and Dean everyday, just the three of them, every day.

Watching Sam and Dean together, knowing that he’s never going to see Dad again.

He can’t deal with that now, maybe… maybe later, in, like, a couple of months, but not now.

Sarah is hot and sweet and they have awesome sex and he can go work at her place and do inventory and fill packing crates and move shit around and they can come home and cook or have take out or go out for a drink or fuck around on the couch.

Sam finishes his cigarette and they sit there while Ross finishes his second smoke. He thinks about the last time he saw Sam smoke, sitting outside that house in Salvation, Iowa, waiting for the demon to turn up, the Colt sitting between them. He’d leaned over the seat and kissed Sam, he’d made out with Sam and told him that he was his brother and they were in it together. It had seemed so important then to say that, to make sure that things were good between him and Sammy before the big confrontation. There’s been too much bad blood, and even these past few days – watching Sam interact with Sarah, seeing the way she comes to life when she talks with Sam – it still, it still gets to him in that way that he knows that he’s always going to be second best to Sam.

He swallows, says, “I’ll be alright.”

Sam turns, surprised by his sudden return to the conversation. His face goes calm, understanding. “I know you will.”

“I can look after myself. I know you and Dean think I’m totally useless, but –“

“I don’t think that, Dean doesn’t think that.”

He shrugs. “Whatever.” He doesn’t believe him. Sam looks like he means it, though sometimes it’s hard to tell with Sam. Unlike Dean, he always knows when Dean’s lying, but Sam – sometimes he’s so freaking transparent, but other times, like now. Maybe he does mean it, maybe Sam does believe in him. It would be nice if it was true.

“Look, you know our number, you know you only gotta call, we’ll always come for you.” Sam’s voice sounds like it’s catching, and when Ross finally raises his eyes, he sees that his brother’s eyes are all shiny.

He blinks, looks away quickly. “I know.”

“Okay,” Sam nods. He finishes off his cigarette, grinds out the butt in the ashtray. Sam leans over, places his big hand over Ross’s, his hand big enough to cover his. He stares down at it, watches Sam turn their hands over, thread their fingers together. “You’re our brother, don’t ever forget that, whatever happens. You’ll always belong with us – with me and Dean – don’t ever think that we don’t want you around ‘cause that just ain’t true.”

God, Sam is just – man – so freaking gay. But he’s obviously gotten overdosed on the emo or something because the lump in his throat is just getting bigger and the blurring in his eyes is getting worse and he knows that if he does blink, then tears are totally gonna slide down his face, and that would be so freaking embarrassing, especially with the way Sam’s peering at him, like he’s some fascinating piece of research.

He just nods, sort of jerks his head up and down, pressing his lips together, and tries to pull his hand out of Sam’s grasp, but Sammy’s got some major grip strength there and he just holds on, like, taking a moment or whatever, and then, finally, at last, he drops Ross’s hand. Ross keeps his head ducked as he hears Sam’s chair scrape back, hears the French windows creak open and closed.

He doesn’t look up until Sam’s gone back inside.

 

************************************

 

 

They leave the next morning. Dean doesn’t say much to him, just pulls him into a hug and whispers, “You call me, okay? You gotta call me, every fuckin’ day, you, you got it?”

He nods, feels the lump at the back of his throat, “Yeah, okay.”

There’s a part of him that doesn’t want to let go, that just wants Dean to keep holding him and telling him that it’s going to be alright.

“You make sure that he calls me!” Dean pulls away from him and turns to Sarah, raising a finger to point, his expression entirely serious.

She nods, “Yes, of course.”

“Good,” says Dean succinctly. “Sammy, let’s go. We’re burning daylight.”

Ross sees Sam roll his eyes as he tosses his duffle into the enormous trunk of the minivan – fucking minivan, he’s never gonna get over that. Sam turns and stares at him, like he’s burning something into him and he can hear the echo of Sam’s words from the night before: _You’ll always belong with us – with me and Dean – don’t ever think that we don’t want you around..._ He swallows, takes a step back, arm grazing against Sarah’s.

They watch the minivan head down the street, make a left at the end of the road, and then it disappears. They’re gone.

“You okay?” she asks.

He doesn’t say anything, still staring at the corner of the street where they just disappeared.

“Ross?” she prompts. “You know you can always change your mind. You could call them right now. They’ll turn around, come back and get you. They won’t even have made it out of town by now.”

“No,” he shakes his head. He raises his eyes to hers; she’s watching him, like she’s expecting he’s going to break down any moment, have another panic attack. “No, this is – it’s good. I’m okay. I want to be here.”

She nods, bites her lip, like she doesn’t quite believe him, and well, he guesses that that’s okay, ‘cause if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t quite believe him either.

 

 

************************************

 

 

“I think he’s made the right decision,” Sam says after the sign YOU’RE NOW LEAVING NEW PALTZ, COME BACK SOON! flashes past the window.

Dean grunts, adjusts his grip on the wheel, doesn’t bother replying. Not that Sam needs him to say anything in order to carry on, Sammy’s on a roll.

“Seriously, Dean, I think it’s good for him, having this time to figure things out, to do something else that isn’t hunting. Don’t you think?”

He shrugs with one shoulder, flicks a look at Sam. Sam’s watching him carefully, like he’s afraid he’s about to explode or lose it or break down into tears or something. “If you say so.”

“I do. Anyway, he’ll be back. He won’t be able to stay away.”

Dean doesn’t say anything to that, swallowing down the immediate retort, the: _You did._ Sam managed to stay away for over two years, he would’ve stayed away for longer, gone to law school and married his perfect girlfriend, had his perfect lawyer-man life if he and Ross hadn’t come looking for him, if the demon had left them alone.

He pushes the thoughts away, they’re old news now, what’s done is done. The demon’s dead, both Sam and Ross are free to choose how they want to lead their lives, and if those choices don’t include hunting or him -

Well, he can live with that. As long as they’re happy, as long as they’re safe.

He clears his throat, drums his fingers on the wheel. “So, what you decided? Where now? I take it we’re not going back to Bobby’s?”

“No, we’re not,” says Sam decidedly. “West Texas, dude. I finally got an address for our mysterious Angela Martinez.”

He nods and reaches to flick on the radio, silently calculating in his head the miles to Texas, the best routes, the highways to avoid. “Okay, then. West Texas it is.”

 

[Next chapter](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/33640.html)


	23. Chapter 23

The roadhouse is exactly what Dean expected; a dust-streaked, beat up building sitting off a back road about ten miles outside of Odessa, TX. The sign is faded, as battered as the building’s facade. It swings half-heartedly in the soft arid breeze as Dean swerves the car up into the front parking lot in a sprawl of gravel and dust.

He brakes and kills the engine, turns to Sam in the shotgun seat. “This it?”

Sam looks up from Dad’s new journal and glances around, looks back at Dean and shrugs. “Guess so. The Roadhouse, right?”

“Right.” Dean purses his lips and peers through the dirty, bug-spattered windshield at the quiet building.

“Well, that’s the address I got. Angela Harrison, formerly Martinez, The Roadhouse Bar, Pleasant Road, Odessa. This is it, dude.”

“Good. Let’s hope they’re open. I’m dyin’ for a beer.”

It doesn’t look open and the door is solidly locked. Dean fiddles with his lock picks, hearing the tumblers fall into place; the lock’s about as old and shoddy as the rest of the building, evidently the owner isn’t too concerned about break-ins. Dean slides his picks back into his case and into the pocket of his jeans. He exchanges a quick glance with Sam; Sam’s got one hand inside his jacket, elbow bent and fingers doubtless curled around the butt of his revolver. Dean copies him, sliding his own hand into his jacket, wrapping his fingers around the solid familiarity of his pearl handled Colt .45.

He shoulders the door open, Sam following on his heels, their arms brushing. Inside, the bar is dark and quiet, the only illuminations the blinking and flashing of an old-fashioned jukebox in one corner and a couple of arcade machines in another. The bar is of polished wood, long and stained, chipped around the edges, faded bar rags draped over the shining beer taps, musty and dusty bottles crowded behind the bar on cluttered shelves.

Dean has to admit that the place looks kinda alright; the sort of place he wouldn’t mind spending an evening or two. There’s a darts board and a couple of pool tables across the far side, and the chalkings on the blackboards over the bar and over the pool tables proclaim BEST BURGERS THIS SIDE OF THE ALAMO. It’s a bold statement, but Dean’s prepared to check it out, mouth watering at the thought of a big juicy burger. Texans always know how to grill right.

Sam’s the first to break the silence. “Looks like no one’s home,” he says. He drops his hand from his coat, lets it swing by his hip, big fingers slightly curled into his palm.

Dean takes a step forward, boot heels echoing on the scratched wood floor. “Hello!” he calls out. “Anyone at home? Service? Barkeep?”

“Stay where you are and put your hands up!”

Dean freezes in place, just enough time to shoot a quick glance over his shoulder to his brother who’s also frozen on the spot, eyebrows drawn together in confusion. The voice is young-sounding, a kid perhaps, a teenager, and sure enough before Dean can say anything else a boy of about thirteen or fourteen steps out of the shadows behind the bar, a rifle raised in both hands.

“Hey, kid, you should be careful with that –“ Dean starts to say.

“Shut up!” snaps the kid, cutting him off. “Put your hands up. Both of you!” He cocks the gun in Sam’s direction, a pissed-off snarl curling up one side of his mouth.

Dean doesn’t hesitate, raises both hands in a gesture of surrender, seeing Sam do the same from the corner of his eye. Sure, the kid looks about thirteen years old, but that rifle he’s carrying is probably loaded, and he obviously knows how to use it; Dean can’t fault his stance or the way he’s holding the weapon or the way he hasn’t taken his eyes off either of them since he appeared. Hell, he knows from personal experience that age can be deceptive, both he and his two brothers were pretty damn handy with a rifle by the age of thirteen.

The seconds tick by and none of them move. His eyes run over the kid, taking him in, assessing him. He does indeed look about thirteen years old, small and fine-featured and awkward looking – that difficult age he can remember both Sammy and Ross passing through – the age where they hate the world and everything in it, particularly annoying big brothers who know best. In fact this kid reminds Dean strongly of Ross at the same age - something in the way his expression is simultaneously ferocious and unsure, the identical almost savage gleam in his dark eyes - making Dean’s stomach knot up at the memory. The kid’s even got the same freaking haircut Ross used to have: closely cropped to his skull in the military bull-dyke style that Dad always forced on both Ross and himself during their teen years, not Sammy though, Sammy was always too goddamn stubborn and prissy about his flowing locks to give into Dad on that particular front.

“Who the hell are you?” the kid demands, gaze flitting suspiciously between him and Sam. “What y’all doin’ in my place?”

“George! Baby, whatcha doin’ out there?” another voice calls out – a woman’s voice, deep and rich and undeniably Texan.

The kid flinches, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Sam or Dean, doesn’t lower the rifle, just purses his lips together in a belligerent line.

“George, put that gun down!” the voice repeats.

“It ain’t a gun, it’s a rifle, Mom, a freakin’ hunting rifle!” the kid retorts, suddenly every inch the bratty teenage boy.

Dean presses his lips together in an attempt to stop the snicker from building up inside him. George, huh? He would never have labeled this kid as a George.

The kid slowly lowers the rifle with a long-suffering sigh, steps backwards, almost colliding with the woman emerging from the shadowed doorway behind the bar. She puts one hand on his shoulder to steady him, gives him a squeeze. The kid huffs, pulls away from her and stomps off, back through the door.

“Sorry about that,” says the woman, her mouth creasing up into a welcoming smile. “S’just I expected y’all days ago.”

“You’ve been expecting us?” Dean says, eyebrows darting up in surprise.

“Yes,” she says as if it’s totally freaking obvious and he’s an idiot for even questioning her. She takes a couple of steps forward, lowers her hands to brace herself on the bar. “Sam and Dean. At long last. You know, boys, I’ve been wantin’ to meet y’all for a real long time. Ever since John passed –“ her voice wavers then she swallows like she’s collecting herself again, gives an elegant sort of a shrug and toss of her hair. “Anyway, I figured y’all would be here at some point. S’nice to finally make your acquaintance, I’m Angela Harrison.”

Angela. Well, it pretty much had to be. Angela, Ross’s mom, the person they’ve been looking for. This woman is Ross’s mom. This woman gave birth to their youngest brother nearly twenty-two years ago and then abandoned him at age four to a state care home. But wait a goddamn second…

How the fuck does she know about Dad’s death? It ain’t like they put a freaking obit in the paper. As far as Dean knows, the only people who know about Dad apart from the three of them are Ross’s girl and Bobby Singer. Has Bobby been in touch with her? It’s possible. Both of them are in Dad’s journal, both of them were helping him hunt down the demon.

He can already feel his chest start to tighten as he watches her sashay out from behind the bar. She’s definitely easy on the eye – he’ll give her that – not that he’s looking, not when Sammy (epically jealous bitch at the best of times) is standing right there, and not when (Jesus), _this is Ross’s mom_. But he’s a red-blooded guy and he can appreciate the long curling dark hair cascading over her shoulders, what looks like a killer rack under that tight red tee and an equally killer ass in her skinny jeans. Hell, he can totally understand how Dad managed to knock her up only months after Mom’s death.

But still..., looking at her, he can practically _feel_ the resentment crawling in his belly like a tangible thing. Ross ended up in care for almost two years because of this woman. Oh, Ross might not admit it, might claim to not give a shit that his mom fucking _abandoned_ him, but Dean knows his youngest brother better than anyone and he knows that it’s just posturing, just bullshit. After all, Ross learned everything he needed to know about putting on a brave front and a bullshit facade from his big brother, and Dean’s always known that he’s full of shit.

His mouth sets into a line as she comes towards them; he can forgive a lot of things, but he can’t forgive anyone who messes with his brothers.

She holds out her hand to him, he looks down at it and slowly, reluctantly, takes it in his own. It’s slim and tanned, coral colored nails and the faint scent of lemon dish soap and beer hops.

“Dean Winchester,” she says with a widening smile, tilting her head and creasing up her eyes in a way that suddenly recalls Ross so vividly that he feels his stomach give a lurch, the air catch in his chest. “You know, your daddy sure was proud of you, used to talk about you all the damn time.”

He does a double-take, purses his lips in disbelief. “Really? That don’t sound much like him.”

She laughs throatily, drops his hand and looks over his shoulder towards Sam. “Sure he did, baby. He was proud of you. You gotta remember that.” She holds out her hand for Sam who comes forward to take it in one of his huge man-paws. “And Sam – well, you are a big one,” she says, tilting her head back and peering up into his face with a coquettish look in her eyes. “John told me you were tall. But hell, he never said that you were so damn handsome.”

“Did John also tell you that Sammy looks just like Ross?” Dean interrupts, the sneer crawling across his face unchecked. “You know, _your son, Ross?”_

There’s a tiny moment of super-uncomfortable awkwardness, then Angela cocks her head his way, her expression suddenly not quite so coquettish. She drops her hand from Sam’s grasp and takes a step back.

“Yeah, he mentioned that,” she says, gaze narrowing a little on him.

Dean sneers, nods his head; he can practically taste the bitterness on his tongue, the invisible presence of Ross standing right beside him with that look of hurt and betrayal on his face. He can’t be easy with this woman; he just _can’t_ , not after the number she did on his littlest bro.

He doesn’t drop his gaze from hers, instead the sneer turns into more of a smirk. “Right, I bet he did.”

“Dean...” Sam’s voice is a low warning, and Dean feels him take a step closer, his hand coming out to brush against Dean’s arm.

Dean flinches, tries to push him off, but Sam’s persistent, damn him, and he gets a grip on Dean’s sleeve, pulls him a couple of yards away from Angela.

Dean wrenches his arm from Sam’s grip and glares at him; he can feel Angela watching them from her spot by the bar and he clenches his teeth, hisses: “What? Whatcha want, Sam?”

Sam doesn’t flinch, just says, all calm and cool and fucking serious business: “We gotta be civil here, man. We got a lot to talk about with her. You heard what she just said – she’s been expecting us – and by the sounds of things she’s been in pretty steady contact with Dad. It’s a safe assumption that she knows stuff – stuff that we need to know about, stuff that concerns all three of us – you and me and Ross.”

“Don’t bring him into it!”

Sam sighs, but he reaches out, touches Dean’s arm more gently, soothing almost. “Okay, okay, fine. But I’m sure he’s gonna come up in conversation at some point. This chick is his mom for Christ’s sake.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

Dean shakes off Sam’s arm again, raises one agitated hand to the back of his neck. He glances over Sam’s shoulder towards Angela; she’s not even watching the two of them anymore, but seems to be doing something behind the bar, arranging some of the bottles or dusting the shelves, whatever the fuck. He sets his teeth and drags his gaze away.

“Dean, c’mon, think of this as just another job. We get the intel we need, we assess it, then we move on. Just think of it like that, okay?” Sam places one hand on his shoulder, peers down at him, his eyes all wide and pleading. “This is just another job,” he repeats.

“Okay,” he says finally, “okay, I can play good.”

Sam smiles at him, eyes brightening. He pats Dean’s shoulder, squeezes gently, then drops his hand. “Thanks,” he says, mouth still quirked into that small private smile. Dean rolls his eyes at him, huffs out his own breath before he turns away and strolls back towards the bar.

He slides onto one of the bar stools, says: “Any chance of a beer? I’m freakin’ parched.”

Angela turns around, a bottle of some dusty looking single malt in one hand. “I think we can do better than that, Dean.” She raises the bottle. “I suggest the three of us take this somewhere more private? My cook’s comin’ by in an hour to open up the kitchen, and I’ve got a feeling we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Dean nods agreement, mouth starting to water as he eyes the label on the bottle. It’s aged, Scottish, the real deal. He feels Sam sidle up next to him and place his hand reassuringly on his elbow.

“Okay then, lead the way,” he says.

 

*******************************************

 

She leads them up some narrow stairs which give out on a dark cramped landing with five closed identical doors. She pushes open the nearest one to reveal a surprisingly large and airy kitchen where the kid – Dean had almost forgotten about the kid – is sitting at the table, parts from a Revell model airplane kit laid out in front of him, brow furrowed in epic concentration.

The kid looks up as they enter and scowls at them, and once again Dean is taken back six or seven years, Ross looking up irritably from some hated homework or equally hated research, a deep scowl etched onto his boyish features.

“I’ll just go get us some glasses,” Angela says, leaving the room again.

“Hey, what’s that you’re building?” Sam asks the kid, geeky enthusiasm obvious in his voice as he moves to loom over him. Dean resists the urge to roll his eyes,; Sam had asked for model airplanes every damn year for Christmas or birthdays when he was a kid, but he’d never gotten one. Dad always used to say they were too fiddly, too expensive, and if Sammy did get one then he would have to be prepared to leave it behind in some motel room or rented apartment as there wasn’t space in the Impala for such things.

“It’s a North American P-51D Mustang bomber,” says the kid in a bored superior sort of tone, as if it should be totally fucking obvious what the damn thing is. “You probably won’t know much about it,” he adds with a withering look at Sam.

Dean resists the urge to scoff out loud. If there’s one thing he’s learned about Sam over the years (apart from his favorite sexual positions) it’s that Sam has the kind of trivia stored up in his freaky melon that would put a serial game-show contestant to shame.

“The P-51 Mustang, huh? That’s the bomber that was used by the RAF in the later World War II bombing campaigns over Germany? Towards the end of the war?”

“Jesus,” Dean shakes his head, catching Sam’s eyes over the kid’s head, “the shit you know.”

Sam smirks, but the kid’s still making scoffing sounds, obviously unimpressed. “That’s only half the story, dude. The P-51 was mainly used in Korea, till the F86 of course.”

Dean chuckles, meets Sam’s eyes again. “Sammy, I think you’ve been pwned.”

Sam makes a face at him, takes the chair opposite the kid. “Okay, so you know more than me, I admit it.” He spreads his hands, trying out a disarming grin on the kid.

The kid finally seems to falter, his expression hesitating like he’s about to thaw out some under Sam’s charm onslaught.

“Y’all are Sam and Dean Winchester, aintcha'?” he says.

“Yeah, that’s right, I’m Sam and that’s Dean.” Sam jerks his head towards Dean who’s found a prime viewing position against one of the kitchen cabinets from which to watch the geek-off close up.

“John used to talk about y’all sometimes – about how he trained you two and your other brother. He was training me too, when my Mom let him.”

“Dad – Dad was training you?” Sam repeats. His tone is incredulous, surprised. “So did he come around a lot?”

The kid shrugs, skinny shoulders moving under his over-sized tee. “Yeah, guess so. He and my Mom were – “ he makes a face, wrinkles his nose – “you know. He always slept in her room.”

He says the last few words like they’re deeply significant, adding an eye-roll for good measure.

“He was cool though, for an old guy. We used to hang out sometimes and he’d show me stuff and tell me about hunts he’d been on, like, he was a total hardass. He was the one who bought me this kit – he knew I wanted the P-51 for ages, so he got me it. My Mom was, like, so pissed with him ‘cause I was supposed to be punished and then John shows up and gives me this and says he’s gonna take me to a baseball game.”

Dean blinks, catches Sam’s eyes across the table. Sam’s looking confused, emotional, a flush in his cheeks and a shine to his eyes that Dean recognizes well. Dean licks his lips and forces himself to look away, curling his fingers harder around the edges of the worktop behind him, trying not to listen to the flow of innocent painful words falling from the kid’s mouth, blathering blindly on about Dad - their fucking Dad – the guy who bought model aircraft kits and took him to baseball games? The same guy who never even attended one of Sam’s soccer games, the same dad who never once took any of them (even Ross) to a sports game, the same dad who refused every damn year to buy Sammy model aircraft kits because they weren’t practical to keep in a car.

So does this mean...

Is this kid Dad’s then? Does Dad have one final big surprise for them?

He _could_ be Dad’s kid. He looks so much like Ross at that age, and he’s definitely got the teenage Winchester attitude.

Do they have another long-lost little brother?

He drags his eyes away from the kid, no longer listening to his and Sam’s conversation. He rakes his gaze over the kitchen, going still, everything screeching to a halt when his eyes land on the photographs tacked to the front of the refrigerator. He pushes himself away from the worktop with a jerk, forces himself to take those few steps towards the refrigerator, confront the familiar face grinning at him from three glossy rectangles.

Vaguely in the background he registers Angela coming back into the room, telling the kid to clear up his stuff. George, his name’s George. He should remember that, remember his damn name. This could be their little brother, George. Ross might have to give up his place as littlest brother to this new interloper. He might have another younger brother to protect. The thought is exhausting, terrifying. He’s fucked up so much with both Sam and Ross over the years, he can’t – he can’t do it all over again. There’s barely enough of him left to give to yet another younger sibling, Ross and Sam have pretty much divvied up everything he has to give between the two of them.

He hears the clink of glass as Angela pours their drinks, hears Sammy’s voice, chairs scraping and the kid bitching as his mom tells him to go do his homework. He drowns it all out and stares at the pictures, at the unfamiliar sight of his father’s happy grinning face attached to someone’s freaking refrigerator. Dad with George, the two of them holding fishing rods – _Dad took the kid fishing?_ Dad with his arm around Angela, her head resting on his shoulder, Dad’s cheek against her glossy hair, eyes crinkling with happiness. Dad, Angela and a younger looking George grouped around a Christmas tree, holding plastic cups of eggnog.

How many Christmases did Dad miss with them? Three or four? Sure, he did make most of them, but there was the year when Sam and Ross gave Dean the elephant hair bracelets he still wears; the year he stole the presents from the house down the road – one for each of his brothers – the presents that turned out to be for chicks to Sammy and Ross’s dismay; the year they spent Christmas Day making paper chains from the back issues of Readers Digests they found in the motel room, eating Kraft mac and cheese ‘cause there was nothing else left.

Was Dad here all those times? With this other family?

He pries the Christmas photograph off the fridge, holding it gingerly between two fingers. He clears his throat, croaks out: “When was this taken?”

Angela turns around in her chair, looks at him quizzically. “Come again, hon?”

He drops the photograph onto the table between her and Sam. He watches Sam stare down at it, then slowly raise his head, meet his eyes.

Sam blinks, his mouth creases up into a painful shape. “Christmas? Dad was with you for Christmas?” His voice cracks over the words and Dean immediately rounds the table, comes to stand behind his brother, places one reassuring hand on Sam’s neck, squeezes gently as he takes a seat. He feels Sam shift closer to him once they’re sitting, close enough so their arms brush. Angela picks up the photo and her mouth twitches wryly. When she raises her eyes to meet theirs, Dean can see the unsteadiness of her gaze, her lips pressed trembling a little.

“That photo was taken three years ago,” she says finally. “George was ten, and we’d just – me and John – we’d been on a break and I hadn’t heard from him in ages. He just turned up, he told me he’d finished up a hunt nearby and could he stay for Christmas.” She smiles wistfully, raises her hand to her lips in an unconscious sort of a gesture. “I let him stay. Hell, you know what a persuasive sonofabitch he could be. And we ended up – well, I guess you’d call it gettin' back together. Though it - it wasn’t really like that between us... It was never that simple.” She trails off, shakes her head, raises her hand to knuckle at her eyes.

Dean watches her reach for the napkin dispenser on one side of the table. She slides one out, unfolds it and dabs at her eyes, careful not to smear her mascara. He feels dispassionate watching her, drained of any real emotion except a pinch of tired bitterness eating away at his gut. This was the woman Dad chose to spend Christmas with instead of them. Dad went to her at Christmas when he finished up a hunt. Dad could’ve gone home to them, but he went to her instead.

Christmas three years ago – he can remember Christmas three years ago. Sam was at college, and Dean had spent the day thinking about him, taking out his phone and staring at Sam’s name in the contact list, doing his best impression of a lovesick teenager waiting for her boyfriend to call. Ross had gone out to the only store open in the godforsaken town they’d been in and bought Dean a bottle of Jim Beam, presented it to him as a late Christmas present, though he’d probably taken the money from Dean’s wallet, Ross’d never had any cash of his own.

It’d gotten a little better after that, Dean forcing himself from the slump of self-pity he’d been stuck in for most of the day, missing Sam so goddamn much. He’d pasted a smile on his face for the sake of his littlest brother, trying so hard to make Christmas special just as he’d always done in the past when Ross was a kid and Sammy was still around. The two of them had done shots together, Ross trying to keep pace with his big brother. They’d watched The Sound of Music and The Great Escape and passed out on the couch before Steve McQueen’s big motorcycle stunt. Neither Sammy nor Dad had called, Sammy too busy with Jessica, and Dad – well they’d thought Dad was in the middle of a hunt, too busy to call.

“Is George,” he starts to say, voice breaking. He clears his throat, forces the words out: “Is George our brother?”

Angela looks up then, eyes wide and surprised. “Oh no, no, baby. No, George ain’t John’s. Don’t worry; y’all ain’t got another little brother here. No, his daddy is someone else. S’just John always – he always took an interest in him. He was like a father to him.” Her expression saddens a little, and she licks her lips uncomfortably before she says: “He said George reminded him a lot of – of – your brother – of Ross.”

Reminded him so much of Ross that he’d rather spend his holidays with a pale imitation than the real thing, Dean thinks bitterly. Right. Good to know.

Beside him, he can feel Sam moving, sliding Dad’s new journal out of his inner pocket and onto the desk. “We, uh,” he says, “if you want to see – we have recent photos of Ross – if you want to see them?”

Dean resists the urge to grab the journal back off him, put the photos away and out of her reach. Sam’s being a good fucking deal more generous than he feels right now. In his opinion, she doesn’t deserve to see them, she needs to stay the fuck away from Ross, he’s definitely better off without her.

Angela nods briefly, presses her lips together as if she’s trying not to cry, though her eyes are still wet, her eye makeup beginning to give up the battle with the barely held-back tears. Dean sits back in his seat, feels Sam’s thigh brush against his own, a reassuring calming pressure.

Sam slides the two photographs from the journal. One of them Sam found there when they were going through Dad’s things. It’s not that recent – one of the three of them taken a couple of months before Sam left for college. They’re posing up against the side of the car, Dean in the middle of course, flanked by his two younger brothers. Ross looks young in the picture, only seventeen years old at the time, so much younger than he does now, and much more like Sam in looks than now.

Angela picks up the photograph carefully, a faint smile beginning to slide over her face as she looks at it.

“John was right, you two do look alike,” she says to Sam. “It’s – he ain’t got much of me in there.”

Bullshit, Dean thinks cynically, you just ain’t looking good enough. There’s plenty of Angela in Ross. He’s been seeing it ever since they laid eyes on her: the same dark shade of hair, same brown eyes, same delicate nose – all that is from her.

“Yeah, everyone says we look alike. When we were younger, all the teachers and kids used to mistake us for twins. The two of us used to get so pissed off about it, right Dean?” Sam says.

“Yeah,” Dean snorts.

Sam darts him a look, a fond twist of his mouth. Dean jogs his elbow and Sam shakes his head at him. When they look back at Angela, she’s watching the two of them thoughtfully, her lip caught between her teeth like she’s just figuring something out.

Sam lets out an uncomfortable sort of a laugh and slides the other picture over to her. She swallows and slowly drags her eyes away from the two of them, focusing on the photo in front of her. This one is more recent, taken only last week by Sarah in New Paltz on her Polaroid camera. The three of them in Sarah’s kitchen, sitting round her table, faces turned towards the camera, bottles and glasses and the remnants of a meal on the table between them. Sarah had taken a few copies of it, left a couple for herself and Ross, given one to Dean which he tucked away in his wallet, and this copy to Sam which he’s obviously decided to store in Dad’s journal.

“This one was taken only a few days ago. The girl who took it; she’s Ross’s girlfriend. He’s staying with her in upstate New York right now.”

Angela looks up in surprise. “He ain’t huntin’ no more? John used to say that he was a born hunter.”

Sam’s mouth twists up. “He never got much choice about that. None of us did. But yeah, he ain’t huntin’ right now. He’s taking a break, though I expect he’ll get back into it at some time.”

Angela nods and replaces the photo on the table, smoothing her coral-colored finger tips carefully over the edges of the Polaroid.

“So he don’t know that you’re here? That you found me?”

“He doesn’t know,” says Dean.

He exchanges a quick look with Sam, sees Sam lick his lips and fold his hands over the journal in front of them.

“Ross has nothing to do with why we’re here,” says Sam. “We’re not here to – facilitate some big family reunion. In fact, we’d prefer it if Ross never finds out about this, about you still being around. He thinks you’re dead, and we’d like to keep it that way. If he finds out that you’ve been alive and around all this time and have never bothered to get in contact with him – well, let’s say, we want to spare him that, right, Dean?”

“Damn straight,” Dean mutters.

“Is that what you think of me?” she says, and her voice is shaking, catching over the last few words. “That I just – just abandoned him?”

“Didn’t you?” says Dean. He raises his eyes to hers, watches her swallow, reach for another tissue.

“You have no idea, no right to judge me. Neither of y’all have any idea what happened to me back then.”

Dean’s about to respond, but Sam beats him to it, lays a restraining hand on his arm, a silent: _let me handle this._

“Fair enough, we don’t know what happened back then, but you’ve been in contact with Dad for at least three years. That photo –“ he picks up the Christmas photo of Dad, Angela and the kid and drops it back onto the table, “- that proves it. You’ve been seeing Dad for years and Ross doesn’t know anything about it. Weren’t you even interested in meeting him, getting to know him?”

“Of course I was!” she protests, tears really falling now. “But John said exactly the same thing y’all just said. He said Ross was better off without me, that I’d just upset him if I came back into his life! He told me Ross was happy how he was.” She trails off, reaches for her glass of whiskey, takes a strong sip.

Dean watches her, feeling a twinge of guilt eat at his gut. She looks genuinely upset, devastated even. Hell, maybe she’s telling the truth, maybe she did want to get to know Ross, maybe what happened back when Ross was four years old wasn’t her fault, maybe, maybe, maybe.

And Dad, fuck, he knows from personal experience how persuasive and commanding Dad can be. If Dad told her straight up contacting Ross was a bad idea then he can understand how she would believe him. Dad was the one with the power, he was Ross’s only parent; Dad _knew_ Ross, she knew nothing. But still – she was his _Mom_ , she could’ve tried harder, could’ve fought more.

He glances at Sam who's looking guilty, dismayed by her show of emotion. Dean clears his throat, and Angela puts down her glass, sits up in her chair as if preparing herself for the next onslaught, hardening her features.

“Look,” he starts, “we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot here.” She snorts halfheartedly, lifts an eyebrow, and Dean huffs out a faint smile. “Yeah. Me and Sammy – Ross is our family – and we can get kinda protective over family, insanely protective so I’ve been told. So, yeah, I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to upset you. Way I see it: what’s in the past should stay in the past and what’s done is done and all that shit. We came here for a reason. We think you have information we need. We think you know stuff, stuff that Dad may’ve told you or stuff you just know. Either way, we need to know what you know and we’re hoping that you’d be willing to give us some answers.”

She nods, takes another sip on her whiskey, taps her coral nails against the glass. “Okay, Dean, I guess you’re right. Like you say, I do know stuff. Fact is it was me that clued your daddy in on most of his research ‘bout Azazel.”

“Azazel?” Sam asks, frowning intently and leaning forward in his seat.

One corner of her mouth curls up into a wry shape. “The demon y’all call Yellow Eyes. Azazel is his real name, or at least his demonic name.”

“Azazel,” Dean mouths to himself, trying the hissing consonants out on his tongue. He shudders, a sudden flash of Dad’s face, glowing yellow eyes, pink slithering tongue. He grips his fingers around his untouched glass of whiskey, heart thudding wildly in his chest. He holds his breath, forcing himself to get back under control, feeling Sam’s thigh brush against his own, that steady warm pressure of Sam close to him, that _hey, I’m here, it’s alright._

He raises his glass to his lips, takes a long swig. It’s good shit, excellent compared to the rotgut they usually drink. He savors it, lowers the glass with a thick chink.

“How do you know that?” Sam asks. “I mean, sorry that came out kinda rude, but our friend, Bobby Singer, he’s been researching demons and demon lore most of his life and he doesn’t even know the demon’s name.”

Angela reaches to refill her glass, taking her time, eyes locked on what she’s doing. When she raises her head, her eyes are dark, gaze almost haunted.

“I was possessed. And before I was possessed, I was like you, Sam. I was one of Azazel’s children.”

 

 

*******************************************

 

 

Angela refuses to say any more after her big revelation, and Sam’s kinda annoyed, itching to know the full story, to know what the: _I was like you, Sam,_ really means, but this is her show, they’re at her place and she’s the one with the information. It’s obvious that their chat – all that talk about Ross and Dad – have taken a lot out of her, that initial flirtatious bravado fading away to reveal a brittle ironic steeliness that he can imagine appealing to their father.

But right now, she’s not ready to talk again. She’s got to help open up the bar, got to serve customers, got to make sure George - the kid, he’d almost forgotten about the kid – has had his dinner and done his homework and gone to bed.

She shows them into one of her guest rooms, insists that they stay with her instead of driving off towards Odessa to find a motel.

“I have hunters stayin’ here from time to time,” she says, watching them drop their duffles onto the small double bed. “And y’all are practically family. I couldn’t let John’s boys stay anywhere else when I got a perfectly good bed here.”

Sam swallows, nods his thanks, hears Dean echo him, that unreadable mask back on his brother’s face. Sam can tell that Dean’s uncomfortable here, that Dean’s itching to leave right now, find some fleabag motel instead. But they have to stay; they need to hear what she has to say. Sam has to _know_ what she knows – what it all means – Azazel, Azazel’s children. What does that mean to him, to him and Ross? To their visions? Besides, Sam can tell that Dean is also kinda curious in that twisted masochistic way of his. Dean wants to know more about Angela, about this woman who is Ross’s mom and Dad’s girlfriend, and while Sam changes his shirt, Dean sneaks off, muttering something about taking a look around the place.

Sam finds him five minutes later in a small living room, watching The Simpsons with George and talking about Dad. He takes a seat in the spare armchair and listens to George talk about how Dad was teaching him how to shoot, how Dad set up tin cans outside on a make-shift range out in back and had George practice.

“He said I got great aim,” he boasts to Dean, “said I’m, like, way better than you were at my age. He said it took you ages to get it right, but Ross was much quicker, like a natural.”

“He was right,” says Dean, and Sam can see the strained lines around his brother’s mouth, the muscle twitching in his jaw.

'“I saw the pictures,” the kid blurts out. “The ones you left on the table. Of y’all and my brother.” He hesitates and for a moment he looks like the little kid he is, young and unsure, the initial pissiness and attitude melting away. Sam thinks suddenly that this kid must be missing Dad too; this kid – George – is grieving for John Winchester too in his own way, the guy who was “like a father to him.”

“I’d like to meet him some day,” the kid says. “John always said it was a bad idea, but I dunno, like, I don’t see why not.” He shrugs. “I don’t think he even knows I exist. He’s, like, my brother and he doesn’t know anything about me. It seems weird, dontcha think? I’ve known about him for, like, forever.”

Sam glances at Dean; Dean’s watching the kid with that same tight unreadable look. Sam stares at him for a second, then gets to his feet. It’s definitely time to get Dean out of here.

“Well your mom told us you got homework, so I think we should head downstairs to the bar for a while, let you get on with it.”

The kid scowls – bitchy teenager returning all of a sudden – but Sam barely notices. He jerks his head towards Dean, signaling for Dean to follow him out the room and downstairs to the bar.

 

 

It’s still early, but there are a few customers around downstairs. A couple of older trucker-types playing pool, a party of two couples at one of the booths, a few stragglers drinking alone. Angela looks up as they come down the stairs, lifts the bar hatch to let them out into the main bar area.

“Y’all want a beer?” she asks.

Sam nods, “Yeah, we’ll get a booth, can you bring them over?”

She smiles brightly, obviously back in character again, back to the same bright flirtatious person who greeted them when they first arrived, earlier tears brushed away and forgotten for the moment.

They take a seat in one of the booths opposite one another. Dean reaches for the laminate menu, toys with it between his fingers. He still looks tense, that same tight hard look around his mouth and eyes. Sam stretches his legs out under the table, traps Dean’s calf between his feet, squeezes.

Dean rolls his eyes and looks at him. “Dude, seriously?”

Sam rubs one of his feet against Dean’s ankle, smirks at him. “Seriously.”

Dean looks sort of annoyed, but he’s also relaxed a little, not so tense and strained, and he’s not moving his leg away.

“You hungry?” Sam asks.

“I can eat.”

“You wanna try one of the burgers?”

“Best burgers this side of the Alamo, Sammy. I think that’s gotta be done.”

Sam smiles at him. “I guess it does.”

They both turn as they hear Angela’s heels ringing out on the floor, coming towards them holding a couple of glasses of beer. She deposits them on the table with a flourish. “There you go boys!”

Dean angles his head up at her, smiles – it’s his waitress-bartender smile – and Sam knows how entirely fake it is, though it’s also lethally charming in its own way. “Thanks, Angela. And you gotta let us pay you for these.”

She shakes her head vehemently. “Nuh-uh. No freakin’ way, boys. Y’all here as my guests. You pay for nothin’, you hear.” She jerks her head at the menu lying on the table between them. “Y’all be wantin’ some burgers then?”

“You bet,” says Dean, sitting back in the booth with a grin. “Rare please, with everything.”

“Does it come any other way?” she says with a chuckle. “Sam?”

“Same for me, thanks.”

He picks up the menu, slides it back into its holder. She nods at them, makes to leave, then hesitates, turns back to them and lowers her head to say: “Y’all should know that we can see your legs, these tables don’t hide much. If you boys wanna play footsie, you’re better off waitin’ till y’all’re on your own.” This time she does turn and leave, heels clip-clopping back towards the bar.

Sam flushes red and yanks his legs away from Dean’s like he’s been scalded. “Shit,” he exhales, meeting his brother’s eyes. “You think she knows?”

“Well she does now,” says Dean.

“Fuck,” Sam mutters.

“Dude, c’mon, she gave us a double room.”

“’Cause she probably doesn’t have another guest room.”

“Yeah she does, I saw it when I was lookin’ around.” Dean takes a sip on his beer, frothy foam around his mouth. He wipes it off messily with the back of his hand and shrugs. “I think she probably figured it out before.”

“Why are you acting so calm about this?”

“Because I don’t give a shit what she thinks of us,” says Dean. “Like you said before, this is just a job – that’s how I’m treating this. I’m not gonna be best buddies with the woman who abandoned Ross just ‘cause she’s been bangin’ Dad for the past however many years. We ain’t gonna suddenly start puttin’ her and her spawn on our Christmas card list or inviting them to freakin’ birthday parties.”

“You’ve never sent a Christmas card in your entire life,” Sam interrupts.

Dean shrugs, “Whatever, don’t change the subject. Point is: I don’t care; I don’t care about Angela or about her kid. They’re not _family_.”

“They’re Ross’s family, isn’t that the same thing?”

“They ain’t Ross’s family. Me and you are Ross’s family. Listen to me, Sammy, Dad’s dead, it’s just the three of us now. That’s what matters. Me and you and Ross.”

Sam looks at him, sees the steely determined glare in his eyes. He swallows over the stupid emotion starting to well up at the back of his throat, the sudden lump that’s just formed, just bows his head, embarrassed by the wateriness he can feel burning at the back of his eye sockets. Dean slides his hand across the table, feathers his fingers over Sam’s hand.

“Hey, look at me, man.”

Sam raises his eyes. Dean’s looking right into him, his face open and unguarded. “You with me here?”

Sam swallows. “I guess,” he says falteringly. “I just – I don’t know, Dean. I mean, Dad _cared_ about these people. You heard what that kid was saying. Dad was training him, Dad hung out with him, he bought him presents that he actually wanted. He obviously cared about him. And sure, they’re not our blood, not our family, but they are Ross’s blood, and that – it means something to me. And I think, I think it means something to you, though I know you don’t want to hear that.”

Dean makes an annoyed sound at the back of his throat and tugs his hand away, leaning back in the booth. He raises one hand to his face, brushes over his cheeks and chin, the stubble rasping.

“I can’t think about all that right now, Sam,” he says finally. “All that with Dad – spending Christmas with them, and taking that kid to baseball games, buying him model airplane kits. He never bought you a model airplane kit, and you used to ask, every damn year, and every damn time he said no, and yet – with this kid. He buys him a fuckin’ model airplane kit.” He trails off, shakes his head, huffing out a bitter edgy sort of a laugh. “I don’t want to be angry with Dad. He’s been dead – Jesus – like two freakin’ weeks – but...” – he licks his lips, bows his head, fingers curling around his glass. “He spent that Christmas with _them_. It was me and Ross and this shitty motel room and you weren’t there and we thought he was in the middle of a hunt – he fuckin’ _told_ us he was in a middle of a hunt. He lied to us, Sammy. And I ain’t just pissed ‘cause of me, fuck’s sake, I came to terms with never being the kinda son Dad wanted years ago, but Ross was different. I thought he loved Ross the best, but he just left him with me while he shacked up with – with _her_ –“ he trails off with a bitter snort, takes another long swig of his beer. “I don’t want to resent them ‘cause I know it ain’t their fault, but I just can’t help it, man.”

Sam bites his lip, the tears are really threatening now, seeing the anger and resentment in Dean’s face, hearing the matter-of-fact deprecation in his tone: _I came to terms with never being the kinda son Dad wanted years ago..._ He wants to come around to Dean’s side of the booth, wrap his arms around him and just scream it out loud: _You were good enough, you were everything, Dean. You were the one that kept us going, not Dad – you! You kept me and Ross going, you held us together. Christ, there’s a reason both Ross and I are so hung up on you, and it’s not just because of your fine ass or your perky nipples._

Instead he reaches over the table, curls his fingers around Dean’s wrist, sneaking his fingers under his sleeve, brushing against the soft skin and fine hairs. “I get it,” he says. “And for the record, you’re in charge here, you’re driving the bus. I’ll play this however you want.”

Dean raises one dubious brow. “You’ll fall in line? You?”

“Whatever you want, man. Just – just I gotta know what she meant when she said all that stuff about Yellow Eyes – about bein’ one of his children, like me.”

Instantly Dean’s brow furrows. “Oh man, Jesus. I almost fuckin’ forgot about all that crap. Why can’t it ever be simple?”

Sam chuckles, squeezes Dean’s hand gently. “Would be boring if it were simple.”

Angela brings over the food and a couple more beers ten minutes later and after that they’re both too involved in eating to talk. Sam devours everything on his plate, the food is good, really good, and Dean’s practically having orgasms in the booth opposite. Sam watches him surreptitiously, enjoying watching Dean love on his food as much as he’s enjoying eating it himself. Dean can be so simple sometimes, little things making him light up like a kid. Dean’s always been like that; always put his happiness and faith into real tangible things like good food, loud music, his beloved car and his two brothers.

His mind tracks over Dean’s words earlier. Dean is losing faith in Dad, in his one true God. And although it’s something Sam always used to wish for, something he wanted so badly when he was younger, when he selfishly wanted Dean just to himself, he’s not sure now that it’s a good thing. Their worlds have been shaken up. Ross is not with them and Dad is dead. Two things that have pushed Dean to his limits, made him hold on tighter and harder to Sam – his one remaining constant - than he ever has before. And although there’s part of Sam that kinda likes it, likes having Dean rely on him, need him so badly, there’s another part of him that’s off kilter, knowing that this isn’t the strong assured big brother he’s been used to – been in love with - his entire life. It’s going to take him a while to get used to this needier, less certain version of Dean.

Of course it doesn’t help that the hits just keep coming. The demon, the possession, just how Dad died, Ross’s role in his death… all that shit that Sam knows he hasn’t even started to process properly, too busy worrying about the here and now, about keeping them together.

Then there’s everything Dean admitted to him that first night away from New Paltz: how Dad’s last command to him was to leave, to stay away indefinitely from Sam and Ross. Dad telling Dean he was fucked in the head, Dad telling him he had no place in their family.

Then there’s that last killer blow: Dad knowing about them – all three of them – before he died. Dad dying with the knowledge that his three sons had let him down in the most devastating way possible.

And now this. This whole other family, this whole other life that Dad was keeping from them. A woman and a kid he cared about.

In a weird way, Sam isn’t completely surprised by this new revelation. Dad was always so distant, so closed off, at least to him. Maybe not so distant to Dean with whom he used to share certain things in his role as Dad’s trusty lieutenant, and maybe not so distant with Ross who adored him so openly and whom John seemed to favor so much more than his two other sons. But to Sam, the rebellious difficult middle child, Dad was a foreign country.

It still hurts, though, knowing that Dad did have this other family, that Dad left them alone at Christmas or bought this other kid the exact present Sam had clamored for when he was a kid. But he can’t afford to get cut up and bitter about it now. He’s moved on from that. And anyway, that kinda shit can’t hurt him like it hurts Dean.

Sam knew from the age of fourteen, from the time he fell in love with his brother, that his relationship with his father would be more or less over. And it wasn’t just because of that, because of the way he felt about Dean, but because he knew that Dad would never let him become the person he wanted to be. Dad wanted a family of hunters that he could lead on his big crusade against evil, his own pack of wolves with him as the alpha and the leader. It didn’t matter to Dad that Sam so absolutely _didn’t_ want that. Sam’s wishes and desires and hopes for the future were irrelevant to Dad. Sam either fell in line with Dad’s law or he was no longer part of the family. That was what broke his relationship with Dad.

He can mourn his father now, but he can’t ever feel about him as Dean or Ross do. And in some ways, he’s grateful for it. It means that he can step up right now; he can lead them, and also look out for Dean and Ross, give them the kind of support they need.

He pushes the thoughts from his head and looks up from his finished plate to survey the bar. It’s gotten busier, more and more people drifting in, more and more headlights flooding the window next to their booth as cars and trucks and motorcycles pull up. He looks over at Angela; it’s just her and another girl working the bar, one more girl waiting tables and the cook back in the kitchen. Despite the rush, they’re managing amazingly well, Angela stopping to exchange words with the regulars, conversing and flirting in an easy natural way that’s receptive, attractive even. He watches her move along the bar to a quiet sad looking older guy at one end; she says something to him and he looks up, crooks a faint smile and she grins back at him. She refills his glass then moves along to serve a couple of truckers that have just walked in, tossing back her hair and laughing merrily at something they’re saying. She’s got a knack and that’s for sure, works the bar and the customers like she was born to it, and Sam would put money on her tip jar overflowing by the end of the night.

He wonders suddenly if this is how Dad met her that first time, just after Mom, all those years ago. She must’ve been young then. She doesn’t look forty now, so that would’ve made her... Jesus, maybe nineteen, twenty, back then? He wrinkles his nose in distaste. But watching her now, he can understand how Dad was hooked. She’s a good looking woman; as a young woman, she must’ve looked even better.

He startles as the girl waiting tables stops by their booth to collect their empty plates, leaning over to pile them up expertly on one arm.

“I see y’all enjoyed that,” she says with a tinkling laugh.

Dean grins up at her, wide and utterly charming – the waitress smile again. “We sure did, sweetheart. You got any desserts just as good?”

She’s instantly hooked, turning her full attention to Dean, practically melting into her hi-top sneakers as she directs all his questions about dessert: pie of course, apple naturally, a la mode, yes please, to Dean, barely acknowledging Sam.

Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes; he’s used to this, and he can’t blame her. If someone as attractive as Dean looked at him like that – well – he gets that all the damn time and it still has an effect. Even after all these years, Dean can smile at him in that way – not the waitress smile, he knows that’s fake – but in that genuine private way, and Sam is putty in his hands.

She flitters off to get their dessert and Dean turns to him with a self-satisfied smirk. “Man, you’re just tryin’ so damn hard to not get jealous it’s freakin’ killin’ you.”

“Whatever, Dean,” he snarks back, but Dean still grins to himself, looking immensely smug.

Sam doesn’t say anything else. This might be an act, a lull before the storm of everything that’s going to come out when they get Angela on her own once more, but it’s Dean just relaxing and being Dean, not letting the weight of the world – of their family – flatten him for the time being. He’s going to let Dean savor it for now. He’s going to look out for Dean from now on.

 

[Next Chapter](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/34578.html)


	24. Chapter 24

It’s after midnight by the time the bar shuts and Angela joins them in the booth. By that point they’re both feeling more relaxed and magnanimous, thanks to a few beers, a couple of games of pool and some seriously good burgers. Fact is, Dean’s finding it hard to resent someone who can produce a burger that damn good. No wonder Dad was here all the freaking time.

She brings the rest of the bottle of single malt with her and Sam slides around to join him on his side of the booth. She watches the two of them with this troubled but knowing look in her eyes as she pours them three generous measures.

“I met John back in 1984,” she tells them, speaking in slow, conversational tones. “He was huntin’ round these parts. I can’t remember what, a ghost, a spirit I think. He came to see my grandmother, she was a well-known psychic, and hunters used to come by all the time to consult with her. My folks ran a bar in Odessa back then and my grandmother lived with us in the apartment above the bar.” She takes a sip of her drink before continuing, her voice soft and low.

“I remember I was tendin’ bar the night John walked in. I’m embarrassed to think about it now, but the moment I saw him, I decided I wanted him. I was used to gettin’ what I wanted, I was prom queen at my high school and you know what that does to a girl’s ego.” She breaks off for a second to roll her eyes in a self-deprecating way. “Anyway, like you probably guessed, I got my way. John and I hooked up a coupla times and I got pregnant, and that would’ve been it, if it wasn’t for the baby – for Ross. But John wanted to be involved; he wanted the baby to grow up knowing who his daddy was. So for the next few years, he used to come by when he could. I used to say to him ‘bout bringin’ you two with him when he visited – ‘bout y’all gettin’ to meet your little brother – but he wanted to keep y’all separate. I don’t know why, I guess he had his reasons.”

 _He had his reasons_ , Dean thinks, the words echoing in his head. Dad always had his reasons. There’s no better epitaph for Dad than that: _Here lies John Winchester, he had his reasons._

“So, for the next four years, that was how things went, John would swing by, visit with Ross, and it wasn’t perfect, but compared to what happened next.” – She licks her lips, reaches to refill her glass, as if stealing herself for some big reveal. “It was Valentine’s Day, 1989, John was supposed to be here, he told me he’d come by and take me out. ‘Cept he didn’t show, he was late, and instead – _It_ came instead. The demon.”

“Yellow Eyes?” Sam whispers, leaning forward in the booth, eyes glittering as they bore into Angela’s face.

She shakes her head slowly, not looking at him. “No, not Azazel. This was another demon; it said Azazel was its father. It came and it forced itself into me, and well, I don’t remember a whole lot after that.”

“You were possessed?” Sam breathes out.

Dean takes a big swig of his drink, the warming liquid doing little to stop the hairs on the back of his neck from prickling up, the memories flooding back: _Dad’s face with the malevolent yellow eyes, Dad’s big familiar hands on his body, Dad’s tongue invading his mouth..._

He shivers, forces the images away. He draws closer to Sam, feels Sam press back into him, curl his big foot around Dean’s ankle under the table, twining them together.

“For two years,” she says. “From February 14th, 1989 to March 1st, 1991. I ain’t gonna forget those dates anytime soon. But during that time – nothing, I barely knew what was going on. I wasn’t the one driving. Most of the time it was like blank, big chunks of time – weeks and months – just gone from my memory. But I’d come to occasionally, and the demon would talk with me. The sonofabitch liked to talk, it liked the sound of its own voice and it got bored. So it would tell me things, things about it – about Azazel – about their little demon family, about Azazel’s plans for me and all the children like me. It said I was special, we were all special, we were Azazel’s special kids.” Dean feels Sam flinch beside him, and he presses his shoulder into Sam’s: his turn to give the reassurance, the two of them lined up from shoulder to toe, practically one long body line.

“The bastard never told me anything I wanted to know, it never told me what happened to my son, never told me about my parents. I didn’t find out what happened to Ross until – until after, after the demon got out of me. A hunter caught me – caught _it_ doin’ something – something bad. Luckily for me, he figured out I was possessed, and he knew what he was doin’. He exorcised the demon from me and took me to a hospital. He told me I was the only person he’d ever met who had survived possession, every other demon he’d exorcised, the human had died. He told me I was lucky.” She breaks off again, the corner of her mouth curling up into a cynical shape. “Lucky,” she repeats. “I was lucky – my folks were dead and my baby was gone, but I was lucky!”

“Your parents died?” Dean interrupts.

She nods, eyes dark and bitter. “Yup, that’s right, baby. There was a fire, same night the demon took me, our place burned to the ground, they both died. And Ross – the police told me one of the girls workin’ that night had gotten him out before the fire caught, before my mom and dad...” She blinks, fingers white-knuckled around her whiskey glass. “It was the one thing I was grateful for – he got out before - before. He didn’t see it; he didn’t see his grandpa and grandma die. I tried lookin’ for him, God, I looked everywhere, I asked everywhere, but he was gone. The police told me there’d been a warrant issued for his kidnapping. He’d been snatched from one of the foster homes just before Christmas but they had no leads, they had no idea where he was. I just – God, I hoped and prayed it was John – it was the kind of thing he would do, but I had no way of knowing for sure, and I was so terrified. I was so scared it was a demon; a demon had gotten my boy. I was a mess for a long fuckin’ time, I felt so certain I was doomed – I knew that one day, one of those sonsofbitches would be back to take me again, so I drank and I took drugs and I slept with guys and I didn’t give a crap what happened to me or how I lived. But then I got pregnant with George.” She breaks off, her hand shaking slightly as she raises the glass to her lips again. She sets it down on the table once more and blinks, her mouth shifting up into a pained but wistful smile.

“I had to clean up then, when I knew I was carryin’ another child. I knew I had to be strong again. I’d lost Ross but I was determined nothing would take my new baby away from me – not child services and not another fuckin’ demon.” She blows out a breath. “That was when John found me. Always with the bad timing, your daddy. Six months pregnant and in fuckin’ rehab and in walks John, cool and collected and larger than life. God, I was so fuckin’ embarrassed, but I was so damn pleased to see him. He told me he had Ross. It was the best thing anyone ever said to me. I wanted to see him – but I was – I was a mess, boys. I was fucked-up and strung out and I wasn’t the same person I’d been – been before – that person who’d been his momma. I’d changed. What that sonofabitch did to me, what I’d done afterwards, I was weak and ashamed and I just – I couldn’t see him.” She gulps, tears starting to fringe her lashes once more. She reaches for a napkin from the dispenser, brings it to her eyes.

“And John – John told me that Ross was doin’ great, he was so smart and confident and happy, and he thought I was dead! My baby thought I was dead. I’d been gone from his life for so damn long, and I just – I couldn’t fuck up his life like that. John – he – he said things would be better for Ross if we waited till he was older. He told me Ross loved bein’ a Winchester, he wanted to be a hunter and he loved being with his brothers and he – just – he adored his big brother –“ she turns to look at Dean, her lips curling upwards into a soft smile, eyes wet and puffy – “I know you probably don’t want to hear this right now, baby, but your daddy _was_ proud of you. I know he was. He said to me that you were lookin’ after my baby while he was there. I was worried, you bein’ just a kid yourself, but John said you were the best person for the job. He told me, ‘Dean will protect him to the very last drop of strength in his body.’”

“Dad – Dad said that?” Sam breathes, and Dean can hear the crack in Sammy’s voice, hear the emotion in the catch of his breath.

She nods insistently, “He did. He did, Sam, I ain’t never forgotten those words ‘cause they gave me such comfort – knowing that my boy had his big brother lookin’ out for him.”

Dean holds his breath, and slowly Sam turns his head, looks at him, familiar big Sammy eyes soft and shining with tears. He looks so happy, so fucking loving that Dean can’t breathe for it, can’t breathe for just how much his brother loves him. And maybe she’s bullshitting – saying what she thinks he wants to hear – ‘cause he’s seen her work that bar well enough to see that she knows exactly the right words to say to a depressed-looking customer to put a smile back on their face and some coins in her tip jar. But, then again, maybe – perhaps – she’s not lying. Maybe Dad really thought of him like that. Maybe Dad really believed that he was the best person to protect Ross.

Still, that was a long time ago. Before Sam and him. Before Sam and him and Ross. Before every fuckup of the past two years. Before Dad knew exactly how depraved his eldest son was, how low he’d fallen. His father’s last words to him couldn’t be more different from the flowery shit Angela’s spouting now; Dad’s last wish was for him to stay away from Sam and Ross for good. Dad had been pretty unequivocal about that. And Angela… what a better way to get him and Sammy on her side than with some tender platitudes from Dad.

But Sam’s still smiling at him, affectionate and starry-eyed, and Dean’s not going to let Sammy down. He can put on a show for Sam’s benefit, make him think that Dad’s words from beyond the grave have touched him too.

“I, yeah. I was just obeying orders,” he says.

She smiles sadly at him. “I know, Dean. And I wanna thank you for what you did for Ross. I know John, and I doubt that he ever told you that himself.”

Sam snorts loudly. “You’d be right. Dad was never much with the praise or gratitude.” He sighs, then smiles at Angela. Obviously Sam at least is mollified by Angela’s praise and gratitude, and in a way, it’s touching, what an easy mark his brother is. Anyone says anything complimentary about Dean (anything not sexually-related of course) and that person is immediately Sam’s newest favorite person.

“Listen, you don’t have to tell us everything,” Sam says to her. “I know telling us all this – remembering everything that happened to you – it can’t be easy.” He’s using that soft soothing Sammy tone that works so well on jittery witnesses, eyes all liquid and sympathetic.

“Yeah, yeah I do,” she says. “Y’all should know why – why I didn’t go after Ross.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to us,” Sam continues.

“Don’t I? Boys, c’mon, I’m psychic, I know exactly what y’all think of me.”

“You’re psychic?” Dean blurts out. “You can read our minds?”

Shit, is his first thought, his second: well, duh. Obviously this was how she knew about Dad’s death. How she figured out him and Sam, though admittedly, that doesn’t take much figuring out, not when the two of them are practically sitting in each other’s laps right now.

Her mouth twitches a little, as if she’s holding back her amusement. “I can’t read minds, Dean, it doesn't work like that. I guess you’d call it, like, an enhanced reading of body-language? I can read emotions, pick up on people’s feelings, I know when they’re telling lies. In this line of work –“ she waves a hand to encompass the dim lit bar around them – “it’s mighty useful. I can lend a sympathetic ear, I know what the customer wants to hear, and I always know when an employee’s had his hand in the till.” She looks up and glances between the two of them: “You two – I had y’all figured out from the moment you walked in here.”

Dean snorts, exchanges a quick glance with Sam. “Sweetheart, everybody figures me and Sammy out. You don’t need psychic powers for that.”

Sam rolls his eyes, jostles him with his elbow. “Dean.”

“What, dude? You know it’s true. We got nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

“That’s your opinion.” He turns to Angela. “I apologize for my brother. He can be a jerk sometimes.”

“Apology accepted,” she says with a smile. “But don’t worry on that front, Sam. It ain’t my place to judge you or Dean. Y’all love each other, that much is obvious. We can’t help who we fall in love with.”

Yeah, amen to that, he thinks grimly. Not that he would change things now. A few years ago maybe, he might’ve done anything back then to be rid of the insidious, terrifying love Sam inspired in him, to be the kind of brother Sam and Ross deserved, the kind of son Dad wanted, and not the fucked-up incestuous freak that he was. He had considered things: spells, curses, cleansing rituals, anything to take away the wrongness – the wrong love – that was eating away at him. But right now he’s grateful that he never had the balls to do anything. He wouldn’t change him and Sammy now. Sam is the one good thing he has left; he’s going to hang onto Sam if it kills him.

“You said,” Sam starts, “you said that you and me are both Azazel’s special kids, but you haven’t said what that means.”

She hesitates for a moment before she answers, and then she nods, says: “Okay. John didn’t want y’all to know ‘bout any of this. He thought Sam would be safer, better protected that way. But he’s gone now, and I never agreed with him anyway. So, okay, I’ll tell you both what I know. The demon who rode me, it explained it all to me. Azazel chose kids. I don’t know how or what his motives were for doing it, but he got into our nurseries when we were babies and he fed us his blood –“

“He did what?” Dean interrupts.

She turns to look at him, her expression calm and matter-of fact. “He bled into our mouths, honey. He cut his palm and fed us the blood, his own demon blood. He infected us with it. Both Sam and me and all the other children he chose, we still have that demon blood inside us. It’s what gives us our abilities. It’s what made me strong enough to survive possession for so long.”

“I – I have demon blood inside me?” Sam whispers, and Dean can feel him trembling beside him, the shivers passing through their pressed together bodies. He slides his hand over to Sam’s, curls his fingers around his brother’s wrist.

“Yes,” says Angela with that same calm tone. “Both of us do. It doesn't mean – it ain’t necessarily a bad thing, baby. You gotta believe that. It’s not the blood – the blood doesn't control us. The blood doesn’t make us who we are, good or evil or whatever. You gotta know that. John told me ‘bout that kid y’all encountered in Michigan, that Max Miller. Azazel did exactly the same thing to him as he did to us. But that kid _chose_ to use his abilities in that way, and by the sounds of things, the poor bastard was driven to it. You and me and all the other kids, the ones John found and the ones we don’t know about, the ones that have no idea ‘bout any of this, we all have the same choice. Sure, we can exploit our powers, use them to do bad shit or get rich quick or whatever, but we don’t have to do that. The demon’s dead. There’s no one around to make that choice for us, except us, Sam.”

Dean flicks a quick sideways glance at his brother. Sam’s nodding his head, his eyes watery and pink, lips trembling, staring at her like she’s the answer to some big fucking prayer. And in a way she is. ‘Cause she’s right, she’s absolutely fucking right, and it’s exactly what he’s been wanting to put into words and shove into Sam’s face ever since the freaky psychic shit started up, ever since that fucking Max Miller kid fucked up Sam’s head. Of course it holds much more weight coming from her. She’s one of them, she’s like Sam, and she can reassure Sammy in ways that Dean never could. Hell, she’s reassuring him right now.

“This is exactly what I’ve been sayin’!” Dean says. “Like I said, man, it’s not whatcha got, it’s whatcha do with it that counts.”

He feels Sam snort feebly, elbow him in the ribs. “Shut up.”

“I’m just sayin’, dude. And hey, you got no fuckin’ excuse, ‘cause you got me, remember? I’m looking out for you, man. You ain’t going darkside on my watch. Not you or Ross.”

“Ross?” Angela says, her eyes narrowing in on them. “What do you mean Ross?”

“Ross has psychic powers too,” says Dean. “Didn’t you know that?”

She swallows, blinking as she stares at the two of them. “No, no, I didn’t know that. What powers?”

He exchanges another quick glance with Sam; sees Sam swallow, look at him as if to say: _I’ll take this one…_

“We share visions,” Sam says. “When I get a vision, he gets it too. We see exactly the same things, except he seems to see it more clearly than me. And we – we’re connected. We can sense each other sometimes. Not all the time, but when we’re in danger and sometimes at other times, other, uh, emotional times. Not every time, but sometimes.”

Dean resists the urge to snicker or raise an eyebrow, because he’s pretty fucking sure what _emotional times_ Sammy is talking about. And Jesus, is that for real? Do Sam and Ross – is it like having a double orgasm? Do they feel each other come? Because if so, the two of them have seriously been holding out on him.

“Ross’s powers, though. Is he - did the demon –“ Sam starts to say.

“ _No_ , no way,” Angela cuts him off. “No – that just – no way! I would _know_ if the demon got to him. There’s no damn way the demonic sonofabitch who took me would’ve kept that little tidbit to itself. It would’ve mentioned it; if they’d gotten to my baby, they would’ve tortured me with that.” She sighs agitatedly, reaches to refill their glasses again. They’re nearing the end of the bottle, Dean notes; they’ve almost drunk the entire bottle between the three of them. “His abilities must come from somewhere else.”

“You said your grandmother was psychic,” Dean points out. “Maybe he’s just, like, inherited it? Like from her or from you? Makes as much sense as fuckin’ demon blood.”

Angela purses her lips. “Maybe,” she says. “Thing is – without seeing him myself, without meeting him, I’m just makin’ guesses.”

The sentence lies there in the air between them, awkward and hanging. Dean can see the argument behind it: Angela’s got this freaky psychic mojo, she could probably “read” Ross or whatever, figure out what his abilities are, what they mean, where the fuck they came from. But for her to see Ross, to meet him –

It would mean a face to face meeting, a heart-wrenching family reunion. And right now, he’s not ready to let that happen. Not yet. Not until they know more about her, not until they’re sure that she’s not gonna hurt Ross.

And even then, if they figure out she’s for real, that she’s on their side. Is it still in Ross’s best interests to tell him about her? How would _he_ feel in Ross’s place? Dad’s betrayal – knowing now what he and Sammy know about Dad and Angela and George and this perfect little family – his own feelings of betrayal would be nothing compared to what Ross would feel, forever denied and written out of this family that _should’ve_ been his. A little brother and a mom of his own.

Ross will end up hurt either way. And while Dean can’t fault Dad for stealing Ross from that care home, how Dad kept all this from Ross for so long, denying him his mom for all those years – he can’t understand why Dad would do that.

Unless there was a reason Dad was keeping Ross away from Angela; a solid concrete reason other than Dad’s unfathomable, stubborn perversity.

Angela shares out the last dregs of the bottle between the three of them. They drink in silence for a couple of minutes; Angela’s suggestion for meeting Ross still hanging unanswered in the air between them. Dean takes a sip from his glass; he feels suddenly exhausted, his brain fuzzy with all the alcohol and the all the information that’s been dumped on them over the last few hours, everything they have to take in. They’d hoped that Angela might be the one with the answers they were looking for, but boy, has she ever delivered.

He can practically hear Sam’s brain whirring away next to him, Sammy trying to make sense of everything, angsting over everything they’ve learned: Sam has demon blood in him; Dad had a secret other family; Ross has a little brother and a mom who are both alive and living in Texas; and perhaps, the weirdest thing out of everything they’ve heard today: Dad had a sort-of step-kid he used to take on fishing trips and to baseball games.

Finally Angela drains the last of her glass, puts it back on the table with a quiet chink.

“I don’t know ‘bout you boys, but I’m beat. I’mma go to bed,” she says, sliding out of the booth.

This is obviously their cue to get the fuck up to bed too as she’s unlikely to let them stay down here while she’s upstairs, so Dean nods, savors the last couple of mouthfuls of whiskey. “Yeah, yeah, bed sounds good. Sam, you ready to hit the sack?”

Sam raises his head, blinks blearily at him. “Yeah, okay, Dean.”

They follow Angela back up the stairs again, Sam swaying into him a little as they round the corner at the top of the stairs. Sammy’s drunk, he realizes with a tug of amusement and affection, and sure enough when they get into their room, Sam face-plants on the bed with a heavy ouff of breath. Dean perches on the edge of the bed beside his brother’s dangling legs and pats his ass.

“You gonna get undressed?”

Sam heaves a sigh and rolls onto his back to blink up at up. “You undress me? Please, Dean.”

Dean makes a face at him. “You ain’t five anymore, man. You can undress yourself.”

“But it’s better when you do it, it’s, like, all hot and sexy.” He smiles gummily at Dean, flutters his eyelashes.

“Jesus, how fuckin’ drunk are you?”

Sam blinks, lip catching between his teeth. “Not enough, not nearly enough,” he murmurs. His expression crumples up, playfulness vanishing as the more familiar anxiety settles over his face, making him look lost and worried once more. “Dean,” he says. He reaches up, catches his hand in Dean’s shirt. “You’ll stop me if I go evil, won’t you? You won’t let me become – become like Max Miller? You won’t let me kill people? Promise me, Dean.”

Dean stares down into his brother’s pleading expression, his big wounded eyes and trembling lips. “That won’t happen, Sammy,” he says, trying to put all his assurance, all his belief into the words.

“But Dean – Dean – it might – you heard what she said – demon blood, Dean. I have demon blood in me! I can – I didn’t tell you this, but I can do shit. Me and Ross – when we were in that cabin. I – I used him, Dean; I used him to get free of the ropes. I, like, I _drained_ him. I took his energy or whatever to get us out of there. I was so fuckin’ scared for you, that sonofabitch was torturing you and I couldn’t bear it, I had to save you! I could’ve hurt him, Dean. I could’ve hurt Ross, but I didn’t care – I –“

“Sammy, Sammy, listen to me.” He leans down, placing his palm gently over Sam’s mouth, shutting him up. Sam blinks at him, eyes huge and watery with anguished drunken tears. “It’s never gonna happen. And Ross was okay, you didn’t hurt him. I know you; you would kill yourself before you ever hurt him deliberately.”

He shuffles onto the bed, shifting closer to Sam, limbs heavy and leaden with tiredness and whiskey. He slides his palm from Sam’s mouth, clammy with Sam’s breath and tears, and brushes Sam’s hair back from his forehead, pressing his face to Sam’s shoulder, his lips inches from Sam’s ear.

“I’m lookin’ out for you, man. Always gonna be lookin’ out for you. And you heard what she said – the demon blood doesn’t matter – it’s you that matters. The person you are, the choices you make. Max Miller had no one, and he was weak. Sam, you got me and you got littlest bro and you’re strong, you’re nothing like him.”

He feels Sam sigh out, feels him roll onto his side, slide his arms around Dean’s back and pull him in until they’re pressed up together.

“Sorry,” Sam whispers.

“Don’t be,” Dean tells him. “Lot to take in. I’m still trying to take it all in. I mean – her and Dad…”

“I know,” says Sam. He opens his eyes again, looks at Dean for a long moment, then he leans in and kisses him on the lips.

Dean opens his mouth to the kiss, lets Sam in as he always does, lets Sam’s tongue explore his mouth.

Sam groans and pushes Dean onto his back, rolling with him, until he’s on top, blanketing Dean from head to foot. Dean feels his dick start to take an interest, start to swell up, Sam’s own dick already a hard line pressing down insistently into his stomach. He’s vaguely surprised that he can still get it up, that after all the whiskey and tears and revelations, they can still do this. Sex should be the last thing on their minds. But this is Sam, and his body is a pushover when it comes to Sam. Dean is a pushover when it comes to Sam, and anyway, he _needs_ this, needs this one thing – this one constant reaffirming thing, needs to reassure himself that he still has this.

“Dean…” Sam moans, pulling his mouth away from Dean’s lips and tracing kisses over Dean’s jaw and down his neck, tugging at the buttons on his shirt.

Dean lies back and lets Sam run the show; lets Sam pull his shirt open. He watches Sam swearing and muttering under his breath when his fumbling drunken fingers falter and slide over the intricate little buttons. He stifles the laugh when Sam growls impatiently and just wrenches hulk-style at the shirt, fabric ripping and buttons flying. And then Sam’s mouth is on his bare chest, tonguing at his nipples and pressing kisses along the lines of his pectorals. His dick is tenting his jeans, and this time he gives Sam some help with the zipper and buttons, yanks open his fly and lets his cock bob out through the slit in his boxers. Sam groans and bends to lick at the head, suck it into his mouth. Dean brings his hand to his mouth and bites hard on his fingers, muffling his moans and groans as Sam goes to work on his cock.

Sam raises his head and licks his lips, looks up Dean’s body with glazed, unfocussed eyes. “What d’you want, Dean? What d’you wanna do?”

“Sex,” Dean says immediately, “want you to fuck me.”

They’ve had a lot of practice keeping quiet when they fuck, all those years of thin motel room walls and Dad and Ross on the other side. They have tricks, they have methods: Sam pushes his fingers into Dean’s mouth while he buries his face into Dean’s neck and back, moans and pants muffled by Dean’s skin, noises reverberating up and down his spine. They’re on the floor, not trusting the bed and the squeaky mattress and the wooden headboard. Dean’s sure he’s getting rug burn on his knees and Sam’s not exactly taking it slow as he pounds into him from behind, but Dean needs this too much to give into the discomfort and pain, he needs to have Sam inside him.

Sam comes first, spills half inside him and half over his ass and thighs, and then Sam’s pushing him down to the floor, rolling him onto his back and kneeling over him like an enormous looming thing. Sam sucks him into mouth once more and Dean curses and arches up, cock banging against the back of his brother’s throat. Some distant part of his brain is registering Sam’s come leaking out of him and onto Angela’s guest room’s carpet, but the rest of his brain is too busy being short-circuited by Sam’s awesome head-giving skills and lack of gag reflex to even give a fuck about his dead dad’s mistress’s goddamn carpet.

He comes with a barely stifled yelp, Sam’s amazing lips and tongue chugging him down like he’s just another shot of that quality single-malt. Sam looks up at him, raises one smug eyebrow, mouth still stuffed full of Dean’s cock; he holds Dean's gaze as he smirks and swallows convulsively, licking his lips ostentatiously when he finally lets Dean's cock go. It slaps back up against Dean's belly, sticky red and gleaming with saliva, and Sam leans down and presses a kiss to the softening head, gently licking up the last few spots of spooge with his clever pink tongue.

Sam sighs and sits back on his haunches, swiping at his lips with the back of his hand, his eyes bright and smile wide. “Man, I feel so much better now.”

Dean snickers and reaches up with one hand; he wraps it around the back of his brother’s neck, and he pulls him down into a kiss.

 

*****************************

 

Dean’s woken up by the buzzing of his cell phone on the nightstand. He groans and fumbles for it, the stupid thing slipping away from him and falling to the floor with a soft thud. He swears and slings one leg out of bed, reaching and stretching for it. Of course by this point, the damn thing’s gone to voicemail, beeping annoyingly at him. He picks it up and squints at the display.

ONE MISSED CALL: ROSS CELL

Shit. He glances at Sam; his brother’s still sacked out on the bed, face smushed into the pillow, hair crazy and sticking up all over, cheeks flushed pink with sleep and alcohol, most definitely still dead to the world. He slides both legs out of bed and gets to his feet. He hesitates, remembering where they are, what they were doing last night, just whose place they’re staying in right now. He puts his phone down onto the nightstand and pulls on some clean boxers and a t-shirt. He knows he’s buying time, he knows he’s going to call Ross back – he’s utterly incapable of not calling Ross back – but the gnawing guilt in his belly, the lies and omissions that he’s going to have to tell (or not tell) his little brother are making him nervous.

Fuck, he _hates_ having to lie to his brothers. He fucking _loathes_ it. He feels a sudden twinge of resentment against Dad. Dad who’s the one responsible for putting him in this position; Dad who kept all this shit from them – _from Ross_ – and now, for the time being, until they get more answers, Dean has no other option than to keep up Dad’s lies.

He takes a breath and dials Ross’s number.

Littlest Bro answers on the first ring. “Hey, did I wake you up?” He sounds cheerful and obnoxious and, come on, the little shit totally knows he woke Dean up.

“No,” lies Dean, because he might be feeling guilty, but a chance to tease and fuck with Ross is something he’s never going to pass up. It’s his older brother prerogative.

“Oh right, so I totally caught you and Sammy in the middle of doin’ it? Am I right, or am I right?”

“You’re totally right. In fact, my fist is half way up Sam’s asshole as we speak. I’m takin’ this call one handed, dude. If you hear any moans and groans then it’s Sammy gettin’ off on a good fisting.”

“Ugh, gross,” says Ross, and Dean can totally picture his little brother’s face right now, the frown and pout, the little half-smile. He chuckles, hears Ross snort.

“You’re fuckin’ with me, Dean. He’s probably just asleep, right?”

Dean casts Sam another look, smiles fondly. “Yeah. We, uh, we kinda had a lot to drink last night.”

“Pathetic!” scoffs Ross. “Tell him he’s a pathetic lightweight when he wakes up.”

“Yeah, okay.” He pauses, takes a seat on the armchair in the corner of the room, watches Sam’s chest rise and fall, the sheet slipping down to reveal the pale pink nubs of his nipples, his broad muscled chest, the outline of his soft cock lying against the curve of his thigh, perfectly visible through the thin sheet. If he were doing anything other than talking to Ross right now, he’d be getting his cock out, jerking off to the picture that Sam makes: naked and gorgeous and spread out for the taking.

“So, are you, like, in the middle of a hunt? Where are you guys?” Ross asks.

“Texas,” Dean answers. “But the job was a bust.”

“You gonna head back to Bobby’s then?”

“Guess so, gotta work on my girl.” He licks his lips, fingers cramping uncomfortably, his entire body feeling awkward and unhappy from lying to his little brother, though the hangover’s definitely not helping. He changes the subject quickly: “So, uh, what about you? What you doin’?”

“Workin’,” says Ross proudly. “I’ve got, like, a real job now, Deano, I’m, like, a serious and productive member of society.”

“Yeah, right!”

“No – no – seriously, man!” Ross protests. “I’m totally for real. And get this; Sarah, like, really listens to my suggestions for the business. She thinks I’ve got good ideas and shit.”

“Oh yeah, like what? Extended lunch breaks? Nap time?”

“No,” says Ross patiently, and Dean can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “No, I ain’t you, man. No. I got her to agree to let me go over all the new shit that comes in with the EMF so we know if something’s, like, cursed or whatever when it comes in. So we don’t end up with another creepy-ass killer painting.”

 _That’s my boy_ , he thinks, the twinge of missing-Ross, the gnawing guilt and loss in his belly rendering him momentarily speechless. He swallows, hears Ross hesitate, say: “Dean, you there?”

“Uh, yeah, yeah, man,” he says. He rubs his eyes, the tension headache that seems to have plagued him ever since – ever since Dad – is back again, admittedly, probably helped on by all the alcohol last night. “That’s a good idea, dude. Good thinking. You know what they say: you can take the hunter away from the hunt but you can’t take the hunt away from the hunter.”

“Really?” Ross asks, sounding dubious. “I ain’t never heard that before.”

“Okay, maybe I just invented it.”

Ross laughs, and Dean smiles despite himself, fond and painful. He licks his lips, his eyes starting to burn, lump starting to gnaw at the back of his throat.

“So, you’re okay then? You gotta tell me the truth, littlest bro. You’re doin’ okay? You know we’ll come get you, any time you need us, whatever we’re doin’. You know that, right?”

There’s a pause and then Ross says quietly, “I know that.”

“Good,” says Dean. He swallows, looks up; Sam’s awake and is blinking at him, watching him from the bed, his eyes full of concern. Dean meets his gaze for a second, then presses his lips together, says: “I – uh – I gotta go, man. But you be good.”

“I can be good,” says Ross. “You know that, Dean.” There’s an innuendo in there, and Dean’s chest tightens at it: want and guilt warring with each other. He licks his lips, says: “And you call whenever you like.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“See you then.”

Ross says goodbye and the line goes dead. Dean sighs and slowly thumbs off the phone, drops it to his lap. He smoothes his hand over his chin, feels the scrape of three or four days’ stubble, bows his head, staring down at the pattern of his faded boxers – he’s sure he’s seen Ross wearing these – perhaps they were even originally bought for Ross. Whatever, it’s pretty irrelevant.

“You okay?” Sam asks.

He shrugs, doesn’t look up. “I fuckin’ hate it, Sam. I hate lying to him.”

“I know, Dean, I know you do. But for the moment, it’s the best thing to do. We’ll tell him when the time is right. We’re not Dad; we’re not gonna keep him in the dark forever.”

Right, sure, Dean thinks, but when will we tell him? When is going to be a good time? Whenever we tell him, however we do it, he’s going to hate us, resent us and Dad for keeping in the dark. There’s never going to be a good time. But he nods to his brother, forces his mouth into a smile when his eyes meet Sam’s.

“Okay, let’s get dressed. I don’t know about you, man, but I’m ready to blow this joint,” Sam says.

Dean blows out a breath, nods in agreement. “God, yes.”

 

*****************************

 

Ross hangs up the phone and slides it into his back pocket. He can feel the stupid tears fringing at his eyes and he wipes them away irritably. He’s acting like a fucking chick for fuck’s sake. But the urge to get his phone out again, to press REDIAL and just say: “Yes, come get me, Dean,” is so overwhelming. Jesus, he’s such a pussy.

He glances down at the homemade EMF meter in his right hand. It’s the one Dean made about four or five years ago, that first fall Sam was at Stanford, he made it from this old Sony Walkman. He’s made a couple more since, also from Sony Walkmen, but Ross has always liked this first one the best, this one has always been like “his”. It’s old and battered and if he thinks about it, he could probably remember every single scrape and dent it’s gotten and where they came from and what they were hunting when they all happened. His memory is totally awesome like that.

Dean made one for Dad too, like a special custom-Dad-made one, and Dean had given it to Dad as a Christmas gift that same Sam-less year. Dad had been impressed, thanked Dean with that genuine Dad smile, and Dean had been so overcome by it he’d looked like he was about to burst into tears. Of course he’d hidden it well, it would’ve totally ruined the moment if Dad had seen Dean weeping over a freaking Christmas present, but Ross had gotten it. Dad had never been into the holiday thing, had never seemed to like any of the shit any of them ever bought for him, so for him to actually like his Christmas present was a major deal. Hell, Ross had been emotional just looking at Dean’s happy disbelieving face.

He buries the thoughts of Dad ruthlessly, biting his tongue until it hurts, until his brain is only thinking: ouchthatfuckinghurts, instead of: DadDadDadDadDad…

“Hey, you done, baby?”

He turns around at Sarah’s call. She’s leaning around the door, one hand wrapped around the doorframe.

“Yeah. We’re good to go.” He’s proud of how steady his voice his, how unshaky he sounds.

“Nothing evil lurking?” she says, smiling at him.

He grins back her, and it’s almost real, almost genuine. “Nah, we’re cool.”

“Good. I’ll open up.”

 

At lunchtime they head to the diner a couple of blocks over, leaving Mandy and Kevin to run the shop. Sarah’s talking on her blackberry to a customer as they stroll down the street, trying to arrange delivery of this ridiculously expense Chinese vase. It’s fall, getting towards the end of September. Fall only ever means one thing in their family – that in a few weeks it will be November 2nd again. It’s a date that Ross has always dreaded, always getting all worried and fucked-up in anticipation, wondering how Dad and Dean are gonna react this time round. Last year, it’d been even worse: Sammy mourning his poor dead girl – the first year anniversary of her death. Of course this year, everything is different and he wonders how Sam will act this year, now that he has Dean all to himself and the demon’s dead and they’ve gotten revenge. Knowing Sam he’ll be just as wracked with guilt as usual, though it probably won’t stop him and Dean from fucking the shit out of each other.

They reach the diner and place their usual orders with Janine, who shoots the shit for ages about her kid who’s just started college, how she’s been, like, on the phone every freaking night blubbing about wanting to come back home. Sarah’s polite, responding to her, though Ross can tell she’s itching for her to leave them alone. After Janine finally leaves to go do her fucking job, Sarah takes a sip on her diet coke, then reaches down and takes the newspaper out of her handbag.

“I wasn’t sure whether or not to show you this, but – “ she nibbles at her bottom lip. “It’s just _weird._ Thought it might be something you would know about.”

He’s instantly alert again, coming out of the coma Janine’s boring-ass conversation just put him in. He sits up in his seat and holds his hand out for the paper. She passes it to him and he unfolds it. She leans over, points to an article about half-way down page four. “There: a story about cattle mutilations, about something draining cows’ blood up near Glens Falls. Now, I’ve seen that X-Files episode, I know that chupacabras sometimes feed on cattle like that.”

“It’s not a chupacabra,” he tells her. “This is way far north for them. They tend to hang around Mexico and the southern states.”

“Oh, right. So you think it could be something else?”

He reads the rest of the article, brow furrowing. “Yeah. I should investigate it.” His response is like an instinct, like something he can’t help. Something weird shows up in the paper – they investigate. It’s what they do; it’s what he’s always done.

“We could call Sam and Dean?” she suggests.

He hesitates, then shakes his head. He kinda doesn’t want to call his brothers; he likes the idea of figuring this shit out on his own. He’s old enough to do it, and it seems kinda pathetic that he’s been a hunter for so damn long and he’s never hunted solo before. And he likes the idea of telling them all about it afterwards – about some hunt he’s managed on his own – even more.

“Nah, I can handle it,” he says.

“Okay, then I’m gonna help you,” Sarah states, a smile spreading onto her face.

 

*****************************

 

He’s feeling conflicted as Sarah drives them further upstate in her Prius, they’re hunting in a Prius, it’s, like, unforgiveable and he knows he should be embarrassed, but whatever. He also knows that he should’ve forced her to stay behind, it ain’t safe, but he really likes her company, and he has to admit when she walks out of the sheriff station and later when she comes out of the town’s lamest dive bar with the info they need, he’s actually pretty fucking pleased he brought her along, he’s always sucked at the information-gathering shit.

“Vampires? Doesn’t sound much like vampires to me,” he says after she tells him what she’s learned.

She shrugs. “You know more about this stuff than me, but the bartender said there was a large group of young folks hanging around an old farmhouse on the outskirts of town. Apparently they party late every night, have very pale skin and wear a lot of stone-washed denim. That sounds just like that group of vampires you told me about in Colorado.”

The vampires in Colorado… that hunt was when Dad showed up, the one where they got the Colt, the Colt that he used to kill the demon, to kill Dad –

No, he’s not thinking about that, never gonna think about that, and most definitely not right now, not when they’re in a middle of a hunt, when he and Sarah are in the middle of a hunt.

“If it is vampires then we should call Sam and Dean,” he tells her ‘cause he might be game for a hunt, but he ain’t stupid and there’s no freaking way he’s letting Sarah get involved in taking out a nest of vamps.

She nods in agreement. “Okay.”

They’re about to walk back across the parking lot towards her car when a guy’s voice calls out: “Winchester!”

Ross freezes, glances at Sarah, then spins around. A black guy is approaching them from the other side of the lot. He’s unfamiliar, but from the almost predatory way he’s stalking towards them, not to mention the huge-ass machete in his left hand, it’s totally obvious he’s a hunter.

“Hey, I knew it was one of you,” the guy says. He has very straight white teeth and when he smiles at the two of them they glint in the streetlight. “I knew your father. He was a great hunter. You look just like him.”

Ross swallows, nods at him. “Uh, thanks, man. But – who are you? I don’t recognize you.”

The guy laughs, deep and rich and somehow also really kinda chilling. “You’re the youngest one, aren’t you?”

Ross tilts his chin up, narrows his eyes at him. “Yeah. And?”

“The last time I saw you, you were a scrawny little freshman. About so high.” He raises his hand to chest height and chuckles again. “Me and your Dad we crossed paths a coupla times. He was pretty handy, your old man, I was sad to hear he’d passed. Always bad to lose a good hunter.”

 _How the fuck does he even know about Dad?_ Ross thinks desperately, flicking another glance at Sarah. She’s watching the guy warily, her eyes narrowed in on him like he’s one of those people who come into the gallery and browse for the entire freaking day and then don’t buy anything.

“Thanks,” he says finally. “But you still ain’t told me your name?”

“Oh, haven’t I?” He holds out his hand – the one not carrying the massive machete. “I’m Gordon, Gordon Walker. And these fangs are mine –“ he raises the machete, gestures around with it – “I’m taking care of this nest. You don’t need to worry about it.”

He hesitates for a second, then shrugs. If this guy wants to get freaking territorial about a hunt then whatever, that’s fine by him, he’s gonna let him get on with it. And hell, it ain’t like the dude don’t look capable, the dude looks scarily capable, that weirdo fanatical gleam in his eyes giving him the look of someone who’s been on the job way too fucking long.

“Okay then,” he says. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, but I won’t need it,” the guy says.

Riiiiight. Okay then. Ross nods at him, a stiff goodbye sort of a nod; he puts one hand on Sarah’s shoulder and they walk back towards the car.

“Who the hell was he?” Sarah hisses when they’re out of earshot.

“I have no freakin’ idea,” he says. “I don’t remember meeting him when I was a kid. If I even did.”

“He was – he gave me the chills,” she says with a shudder.

“Hmm, yeah,” he agrees.

 

 

The motel is only a few blocks away and they get there in less than five minutes. He’s fiddling with the lock, Sarah beside him when she gasps out, grabs onto him with one hand. He jumps, spins around. There’s a chick – a dark-haired, gothy, vaguely attractive chick – standing right by Sarah’s shoulder. Neither of them heard her approach, she’s either super stealthy or he is seriously out of practice. Either way, Dad would’ve, like, seriously had his ass for it.

“Hi, I’m Lenore,” says the chick, holding out her hand. “I was hoping we could have a cup of coffee and a chat.”

Lenore, it turns out, is a vampire, one of the vampires currently living at the abandoned farm just out of town. Except she’s nothing like all the vamps Ross has met and killed before. She’s a good vampire, a vegetarian one. Sarah is charmed by her, and easily agrees to Lenore’s pleas to be left alone, for her and her family to be allowed to keep drinking cattle blood in peace.

“I think that sounds fair,” Sarah says, “don’t you think, baby?”

He shrugs. He pretty much agrees, if this vampire chick is for real, if all she drinks is cow blood, then yeah, he’s cool with the idea of letting her and her clan live. He’s not a freaking monster, he only kills shit that’s actually evil, this chick drinks green tea for Christ’s sake, she smells of patchouli oil. She looks more like an anemic hippie than one of the undead.

“Yeah, I’m cool with that,” he tells her, “but it ain’t us you gotta worry about, sweetheart. It’s – uh – “ he turns to Sarah – “ what was that creepy dude’s name?”

“Gordon Walker,” says Sarah.

The change on Lenore’s face is startling, the blood drains from it, and man, Ross thought she was pale before, but Jesus – now she really does look like a freaking corpse. She lifts her cup to her lips, her hands visibly shaking.

“That man – that man is a monster,” she says, her voice crackling with emotion. “He persecutes my kind.”

“To be fair, most of your kind do eat people,” Ross says reasonably.

“But _we_ don’t. Not for years, and yet – that man.” She shivers, then seems to pull herself together. She reaches into a pocket of her flared jeans, brings out a blackberry. “I must warn my family. Once again, we will have to leave, to flee this man who persecutes us.” She might be a vegetarian vampire but she’s definitely got the vampiric flair for the dramatic. Though, hang on, wait a sec… is she seriously using a blackberry to warn her clan? What’s she gonna do – email them?

Seriously, this hunt is _weird._ He can’t wait to call Dean and tell him all about it.

She puts down the blackberry when she’s done and turns to them. “I want to thank you both – for the warning, and for being so understanding. It’s nice to know that not all hunters are like that man.”

Ross nods at her, gives her a fake smile of reassurance. If he’s, like, totally honest with himself, he’s not sure he’s doing the right thing. He doesn’t know what Dad would do, she is a vampire after all, she is technically a monster. But she’s not a _bad_ vampire, and there’s gotta be a difference. Maybe he should give Dean a quick call, check and see what he would do in his place. But there isn’t really any time and Lenore is already getting to her feet, throwing dollar bills onto the table to cover the cost of her green tea and their coffees.

They follow her out into the parking lot, accompany her to her pick-up.

_“Winchester!”_

The shout has them all spinning around. It’s Gordon Walker again, striding across the parking lot towards them, machete in hand. Christ, does the guy have nothing better to do than stalk after them like he’s Michael freaking Myers?

Ross steps forward, pushes Sarah and Lenore behind him. “Get into the car,” he tells them.

“Ross –“ Sarah says. She looks worried, blinking and looking between him and Gordon.

“Now!” he snaps at her.

He turns back around, hearing the pick-up’s doors open and close – good, they’re both inside. Gordon has the machete raised, baring his teeth into a snarl, his eyes glowing fanatically.

Jesus, this guy is freaking _deranged._

But, whatever, the dude is shit out of luck if he thinks he’s getting past Ross.

“You’re on their side? They’re monsters, Ross, monsters!” Gordon snarls. “Just let me to the bitch, let me kill her!”

“No,” he says firmly, and he sticks out his fist and punches Gordon in the face with all the strength he can muster.

The pain flares up his knuckles, and he winces, hisses out loud, but there’s no time to feel it, no time because Gordon is springing back up again, tossing aside his machete with a roar, spitting blood as he charges at Ross. Ross kicks out, catches him on the shin, darting away to avoid Gordon’s slamming fist. Gordon bellows in frustration and comes at him again; once more, Ross manages to neatly sidestep him, this time letting his leg trail. Gordon stumbles over it and Ross spins around, kicks him firmly on the hip, watches him tumble and sprawl to the ground. He uses the advantage to jump the guy, like, literally leap on him, grinding him into the grit and gravel of the parking lot, following up with his fists and feet.

God, it feels good. It feels so fucking good. And it’s so damn familiar. All those years of sparring with Sam and Dean, of smacking the shit out of each other, of smacking the shit out of monsters or douchebags in bars. He loves it when it’s good and dirty like this. Nothing like a fast and furious fist-fight, nothing like getting the upper hand and knowing that you’re winning, that you’re the one on top, that they ain’t gonna get you back ‘cause you’re too damn good.

He pulls back his fist and punches Gordon hard in the face, feeling the guy’s nose break under it, blood and snot on his knuckles, bone splintering and teeth cracking. Gordon is bellowing with rage and pain, but he can’t make any headway, he can’t get away, Ross has him pinned down. He can’t believe how easily he’s winning this, how much better he is, he’s never felt this wild, this intense, he’s beating the ever-loving shit out of this crazy seasoned hunter.

It’s fantastic.

_“Ross! Ross! Baby, no, stop it! Please, Ross! You’ve beaten him! Ross, please! You’re gonna kill him!”_

Sarah’s voice drifts through to his consciousness and dimly, at the back of his mind, he registers her hand on his arm, tugging at his sleeve, trying to pull him away. “C’mon, baby, it’s okay. You won.”

He pants for breath, chest heaving up and down, winded and breathless and knuckles throbbing. Not just his knuckles but his hands and his wrists and his arms, all the way up his arms to his shoulders. He aches all over. He stumbles to his feet, aiming one last kick at Gordon’s prostrate form.

She pulls him back, wrapping her arms around his waist and scuffing through the gravel. He stares down at the ground, where Gordon’s curled himself up into a fetal position, moaning pitifully. Jesus, he really did beat the shit out of him, he really did do it.

His heart thuds so hard he can’t hear anything, barely even noticing Sarah wrapped around him, forcing him away from the scene, pushing him back towards her car.

He blinks, feels blood on his lips, against his tongue, hot tears in his eyes. _Dean_ , he thinks, _Dean, where are you?_ He wants Dean to step forward, look pleased, impressed with him, take him into his arms and press his lips to his forehead, whisper: “Good job, littlest bro, you did good,” into his ear.

“Let’s go,” she says quietly, “c’mon, let’s go.”

She drives him back to New Paltz. It’s only a couple of hours; she’s silent the entire way, her expression tight and drawn. He hunkers down into the passenger seat, cradling his throbbing hand, feeling the tears roll silently down his face. He’s not even sure why he’s crying, he has no fucking idea why. He feels so blank and empty and lost. He has no idea what he’s doing with his life, what he’s doing here, in a fucking Prius, with a pretty girl driving him back to her fancy apartment.

He misses Dean and he misses Sammy and his father is dead.

Sarah guides him inside her apartment like he’s a fucking blind man, like he’s not even capable anymore. She sits him down at the kitchen table, gets out her first aid kit. She bathes his cuts and bruises and poor fucked-up hands with ointment; she bandages up his throbbing hand. She forces him to take some painkillers and sleeping tablets.

“You need to sleep, baby,” she tells him. She smiles sadly at him and leans in to press a kiss to his cheek; her own cheeks are wet with tears and he doesn’t know if they’re hers or his.

“It’ll be better in the morning,” she says.

[Chapter Twenty Five ](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/35129.html)


	25. Chapter 25

“Ohmigod, are you serious? Will you guys really do that?”

Sam clears his throat and runs his finger uncomfortably under his collar, watching Dean flash a wide and exceedingly fake smile at their over-excited interviewee, Ava Wilson, a twenty three year old secretary from Peoria, Illinois, and according to their father’s journal, another of Azazel’s “chosen kids”.

“Yes,” Dean continues smoothly, “you won the competition, Ms Wilson, so your wedding will feature in our winter edition of _Your Special Day_. Our photographer will be with you on the day to take pictures of yourself, your fiancé and your guests. And either my colleague or myself will be there to interview you so we can share the joy and laughter of _your_ special day with our readers. And of course we will be presenting you with the grand prize… the check for $1000 cash!”

“Ohmmigod! Wow – just – seriously – wow! I don’t even remember entering the competition!” she squeals, hands flailing excitedly. “It was Brady wasn’t it? My fiancé, who entered us? He just – I can’t believe he didn’t tell me! But that’s so like him – he’s, like, so thoughtful, just the awesomest boyfriend ever!”

Sam watches Dean make a show of consulting the empty notebook in front of him, then he raises his eyes back to Ava’s, smiles again. “Brady McIntosh, yes.”

“Wow. Sorry I’m just –“ she waves a hand in front of her face, exhaling, hair puffing off her forehead. “I have to text him!” She turns to scrabble around in her purse for her phone. “I just absolutely have to text him right now – he’s just gonna – he’s gonna totally freak out when he hears this!”

Sam clears his throat, exchanges a pointed look with Dean. “Sorry, excuse me, Ms Wilson, but if you wouldn’t mind, before you call your fiancé, we’d like to just ask you a few questions? Our readers love to hear all about the winners – the human interest element, you know how it is,” he adds with a slick smile.

She snaps her phone closed and turns her attention back to him. “Oh right, yes of course. No, that’s totally cool. I’m happy to answer your questions. Just ask me whatever you want.”

 

 

“So… not evil?” he says as they stroll down the sidewalk towards the spot where they left the car.

“Dude, _evil!_ She’s a freakin’ bridezilla! Just makes me glad I’m never gonna get hitched. I don’t care how much you beg or plead for it, Sammy, it ain’t happening, okay? You and me’re never tying the knot.”

“I’ll try to contain my disappointment.”

“Whatever, I know your ass is secretly dying to get me to the altar.” Dean turns his head, grins at him, crooked and smug. “Admit it, man; you have the dress picked out already, dontcha?”

“Hey, you were the one going on about wedding gowns and how many bridesmaids,” he raises his voice into a high-pitched and dead-on accurate impression of Dean’s gushing in the coffee shop: “Ooh, russet for the bridesmaids' dresses, not everyone can carry that off, but it totally works for a fall wedding… have you thought about the colors for the flowers yet? Wait, of course you have – posies or bouquets? Boutonnières of course, a wedding isn’t a wedding without boutonnières. He breaks off, snorts at his brother. “Sounded to me like you knew exactly what you were talking about, like you’d done plenty of research.”

“Just playing a character, man.”

“Yeah, sure you were, Dean, whatever you wanna tell yourself.”

They come to the car, Dean unlocks it and Sam slides into the passenger side, letting his head fall back, lolling over the bench seat.

He sighs and straightens up. “Still, I don’t think she’s going dark-side anytime soon.”

Dean nods, starts the engine. “I think you’re right.”

 

***********************

 

Ava’s the second psychic kid that they’ve found – that Dad found, Angela helpfully deciphering Dad’s cryptic markings in the journal before they left her place. So far, both kids they’ve found have been, well, _normal_. Reassuringly, mundanely normal in fact. Admittedly, the first kid, Scott Carey, had his problems; he’d been seeing a psychiatrist and was on some pretty strong antidepressant meds. They’d broken into his psychiatrist’s office to read his notes, but there’d been no visions or nightmares, no hallucinations or weird occurrences in Scott Carey’s file, just a regular mixed-up kid dealing badly with his parents’ divorce and his inability to do anything with his fine arts degree.

If either Ava or Scott ever had any freaky psychic powers then they’ve not manifested so far, or at least not so either of them have noticed. And the demon’s dead. Whatever its end-game was with infecting all these kids all those years ago, it’s not around to carry it out right now.

Still, Sam’s not going to completely erase them from his list or from his mind. It’ll be easy enough to swing by and discreetly check up on both Ava and Scott every few months, and he knows he’ll feel better doing so.

There are two other names left on Dad’s list: Andy Gallagher and Jake Talley. Andy’s a resident of Guthrie, Oklahoma, while Jake is currently serving with the 51st regiment in Afghanistan, which rules him out for any further investigation, at least for the moment.

Sam closes Dad’s journal and drums his fingers on the leather cover. His stomach gives a rumble, reminding him that he’s hungry, and as if on cue, someone raps on the motel room door, calls out: “Pizza!”

He gets to his feet, grabbing Dean’s .45 from the table and tucking it into the back of his jeans as he goes to get the door. He takes the pizzas gratefully from the bored looking kid, and tips him more generously than they can afford.

“Dean! Pizza’s here!” he yells in the general direction of the bathroom as he opens the boxes, the steamy and mouth-watering aroma of baked cheese, onions and pepperoni filling the air. He takes a seat at the table again, pulling the pizza box towards him and pushing Dad’s journal away from the food.

“Dean!” he calls out again when he’s devoured three slices and Dean still hasn’t appeared.

There’s a muffled noise from the bathroom, some banging around and the sound of Dean’s voice. Sam shrugs and munches another slice, looking up when finally, the bathroom door bursts open and Dean emerges, followed by a waft of thick steam. Dean’s half-dressed, faded grey t-shirt wet around the neck and clinging damply to his chest, jeans not fully buttoned and feet bare. He looks fresh-faced, rosy-cheeked and eminently fuckable.

Dean walks right past him, barely acknowledging him in his quest for food. He grabs a slice of pizza and stuffs it whole into his mouth, cheeks going hamster-like as he chews. It’s vaguely obscene.

Dean’s phone goes off after he’s inhaled two more slices, and he swears, goes to pick it up. Sam looks up as Dean answers, heart sinking when he sees the concerned look sweep across his brother’s face.

It’s got to be Ross. Dean only looks like that when it’s Ross.

“Yeah? Two fuckin’ days. Are you kidding me?” Dean snaps. He frowns, eyebrows drawing together as he listens closely to the person on the other end. He raises his hand, drags it through his wet hair, rubs at the back of his neck. “What? Yeah. Okay. We can – fuck, we’re in – Peoria. So we can be there…” he looks at Sam.

Sam quickly calculates in his head: Peoria to New Paltz. “Uh, fifteen, sixteen hours,” he says.

“You hear that?” Dean says into the phone.

Sam watches his brother press his lips together, nod tightly, his shoulders seeming to slump under whatever the person on the other end is saying.

Sam sighs and gets to his feet to start gathering their stuff. He’s relieved he thought to have a shower before Dean, that they’ve got food now. They’re pretty much ready to go soon as he gets their shit packed and Dean finishes dressing. This way, they can drive without a break, taking shifts at the wheel.

Dean says a couple more terse sentences and then he’s hanging up, throwing his phone to the bed with a weighty sigh.

“What is it? Is he okay?”

Dean blows out a breath, shakes his head. “Fuck, dude. That was Sarah. She says he hasn’t gotten out of bed for two days.”

_“What?”_

“What I said, man. He hasn’t gotten out of bed for two days. He ain’t eating or saying much, he – he’s fucked-up, Sam. We should never have left him behind! I knew – I fuckin’ knew…” he trails off, bites his lip, worry etched into every line of his face.

Sam walks towards him. “Hey,” he says. He raises his hands, cups Dean’s face, fingers threading into his brother’s wet hair. “Hey, he’ll be alright, Dean.” He puts all the certainty he feels into the words. “Listen to me, he’ll be okay. Once the three of us are back together again. You’ll fix him; you’ll make it better for him – just like you’ve always done.”

Dean pulls away from him, bows his head. “Jesus, Sam, what if I can’t?”

“You can,” Sam insists. “I know you can.”

Dean shakes his head at him, smiles faintly. “Sam –“

“Get dressed. C’mon, we should be leaving soon. I’ll drive the first shift.” He holds up one hand as Dean starts to protest. “No protests. You need to rest and you need to eat. You can eat in the car. I’ve had my share.”

They’re checked out and on the road in under ten minutes. Dean sits in the shotgun seat and half-heartedly munches on the rest of the pizza as Sam puts his foot to the floor and merges them onto the I-74.

“What else did she say?” Sam asks.

Dean sighs and drops the rest of the slice to the cardboard box. “They were huntin’.”

“Hunting? Ross and Sarah?”

“Yup.”

“Shit, the stupid ass, why the fuck would he do that?”

“He’s a hunter, Sammy, it’s what he is. Like us. It’s what we do.”

It’s true. He remembers all those months in college, forcing himself not to read about the unexplained deaths and accidents that he couldn’t help scanning for in the papers. It was hard not to get involved, and he’d had a lot of distractions at the time: Jess and his friends, college essays and his part-time jobs. Ross doesn’t have those distractions, and Ross has been hunting his entire life. Of course he would gravitate to it.

“They went huntin’ a coupla weeks ago. Some case upstate – vampires – ‘cept they were friendly vampires or something. Anyway, this other hunter turned up and he was trying to get to Sarah and the vampire chick and Ross was defending them. He beat the guy up pretty bad, least that’s what she said. He broke down after that, just started crying, though he seemed better the next day, just like normal again, making out like nothing had happened.” Dean breaks off, sighs heavily. Sam darts him a quick look, sees his bent head, slumped shoulders, fingers prodding desultorily at a pizza crust.

Ross would want to pretend nothing had happened. Ross is a Winchester; Ross learned from Dad that repression and denial of all feelings that aren’t vengeance or family loyalty is the way a Winchester behaves, so of course Ross would make out like nothing had happened. He doesn’t know any other way.

“But he’s not okay now?” Sam says slowly.

Dean shakes his head, exhales. “No.” He licks his lips, starts to fold up the pizza box, cardboard creasing and tearing. “We should never have left him behind. It felt wrong at the time. I knew we should’ve forced him to come with us.”

“It’s what he wanted,” says Sam.

“Fuck what he wanted! He wasn’t capable of deciding that shit for himself! I _knew_ that and I just – I let him stay behind.”

“So you think this wouldn’t’ve happened if he’d been with us?” Sam says mildly. He hears Dean swallow, lick his lips again and he darts him a quick side-ways look. Dean’s staring through the windshield, his expression blank and drawn. “Think of everything that’s happened – Dad – and – and how Dad died. Dean, he hasn’t had a chance, he hasn’t even started grieving yet. He wasn’t there when we burned Dad. He hasn’t had the closure we have.” He pauses, reaches over to lay his hand on Dean’s thigh. “Hey, listen to me, man. Don’t you dare beat yourself up about this! Acting out – kicking the shit out of some hunter or lying in bed all day – all these things, they’re not unusual for someone who’s going through what Ross is going through. It’ll be okay, man. Trust me on this.”

“He needs to be with us,” Dean says quietly.

“I agree, and we’re not that far away. It’ll be alright, Dean.” He pats Dean’s thigh a couple of times before removing his hand and putting it back on the wheel.

 

*****************************************

 

They pull up outside Sarah’s apartment building thirteen hours later. They’ve made good time – really good time, breaking a few speed limits along the way. Sam’s watch reads 6:30am and it’s quiet outside, the streets still pretty empty, the sun not yet up.

Sarah looks frazzled when she lets them in. She’s wearing a robe and carrying a mug of coffee in her hands. Sam follows her into the kitchen while Dean just walks right past them and into the bedroom, barely stopping to greet her. Sarah doesn’t call him back, just watches him go with her lip between her teeth, creases around her eyes and mouth that tell a story of late nights and no sleep.

Sam glances at the closed bedroom door and thinks about joining them. He remembers only a couple of weeks ago, their last trip here. He remembers sitting on the other side of a closed door with Sarah and sharing an awkward cup of coffee. Should he sit out here again? Let Dean work his magic on Ross, let Dean do whatever it is that Dean does to keep them going, keep them moving. Or should he go on inside? He’s one of them after all. He belongs with them; the three of them belong together.

“Coffee, Sam?” asks Sarah. He turns around, accepts the mug gratefully. She gives him a wan smile. “I think I remembered how you take it.”

She has, and he nods, tells her thanks.

She shrugs, looking uncomfortable and awkward in her robe and slippers, hair in a tangled bun, face unwashed. She takes a seat at the table, gestures for him to join her.

He hesitates, thinking again about going on into the bedroom, but it would be rude to say no to her, and after all she’s been good to them, she’s been good to Ross. They owe her.

“What happened?” he asks after a moment’s silence.

She sighs, takes a sip of her coffee. “I don’t know, Sam, honestly, I have no idea. On Monday he was okay, he seemed fine. We had this dumb fight, but we – he was fine. But on Tuesday, he just suddenly refused to get out of bed, ignoring me like I wasn’t even there. I was so pissed with him, I thought he was just being cute, giving me the silent treatment because of the fight, you know how he can be sometimes –“ Sam nods, huffs out a smile. She smiles half-heartedly back at him. “Yes, so I left him, I went to work. I had to, I was running late and we had this shipment coming in and we were busy.” Her tone has gotten self-defensive, Sam notes, her expression a little guilty. “But yesterday, it was more of the same. He just lay there, he barely even moved. I managed to get him to eat some toast last night – but most of the time…” She breaks off again, tugs at her hair, running her hand over her face. “– I remember how it was when my Mom passed. I didn’t leave my room for days. I just couldn’t face it. The idea of going out there, of speaking to people and seeing people, all the while she was gone was so awful to me, I couldn’t bear even thinking about it.” She shakes her head and Sam sees the gleam of tears in her eyes. “Jesus, I’m so damn tired, Sam. I have no fucking idea what to do here. I don’t know how to help him.”

Sam swallows back the resentment starting to niggle in his belly. What does he expect? She doesn’t know Ross; she doesn’t even begin to know half of what he’s been through. And that’s not her fault; he can’t blame her for that. They should be grateful that she’s even been here at all for him.

He slides his hand across the table, pats her hand, putting on his best sympathetic face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You should’ve called us straight away.”

She straightens up again, blinks, tears spilling, rolling down her face. “Don’t be sorry. I get it, I – I understand how it is when you lose someone. But I feel like I’m making things worse for him, I feel so damn useless! I can’t – I can’t talk about this with him and every time I mention to him that he might benefit from seeing a professional, he just pushes me away. And I - I can’t stop thinking about my mom. I just keep thinking about her and I can’t deal with that – “

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he interrupts. “Listen, we’re not judging you. We want him to come with us anyway. He should be with his family right now. And you’re probably right about the professional thing but we, uh, in our family, it’s not really done.” He huffs out a half-smile, wry and sympathetic.

He watches her fumble in the pocket of her robe, take out a tissue. She wipes her eyes, nods, says: “I don’t want to stop seeing him. I like him; I don’t want it to be over – but right now –“

“Right now is seriously bad timing,” Sam finishes.

She huffs out a shaky relieved breath, mouth curling into a self-deprecating shape. “Yeah, you could say.”

“Don’t worry; I don’t think Ross’ll be forgetting your number in a long while. I know he really likes you. He will want to see you again.”

Her expression softens and she smiles, the wryness dropping away, to reveal real affection. “I hope so. I still want us to be together, despite everything – it’s been – it’s been really good these past few weeks. I don’t want this to be over. Will you tell him that from me?”

“It doesn’t have to be over,” he says matter-of-factly. “And you can tell him that yourself. There are such things as phones and email, you know?”

She nods, wipes her eyes, that little self-deprecating smile again. “Doing the long-distance thing?” she sighs.

“Why not? And remember we can come back any time, travelling around is what we do. And I know Ross will want to come back. Trust me, I’ve never seen him this into anyone before.” He drains the rest of his coffee, gets up from the table. “Is it okay if I take a couple of mugs in for them?”

“What? Oh yes, yes, sure. Shit, I – uh – I have to go to work. We got this customer – “

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he cuts her off. “Just go, do what you have to. We got it now.”

“Right,” she says, but she hesitates, half up off her chair. “Well, I’ll – go take a shower I guess. You promise you’ll come by and say goodbye before you go?“

“I promise,” he tells her.

She bites her lip, nods her head. “Okay, okay, that’s, uh, that’s good I guess.”

He gives her another reassuring smile and turns to pour the coffees for his brothers. She gets up from the table and deposits her mug neatly in the sink before leaving the room.

He sighs in relief when she’s left, momentarily closing his eyes, then opening them again as he gathers up the mugs and heads for the bedroom.

It’s dark inside the bedroom, the curtains mostly pulled, thin dawn light starting to seep through a chink where they don’t quite meet. Dean is sitting back against the headboard, shoes kicked off onto the floor, leather jacket tossed down beside them. Ross is sprawled across Dean’s chest, face buried in Dean’s neck, fingers fisted in Dean’s flannel, gripping so tight the fabric is pulled taut around Dean’s belly. Dean’s got one hand on Ross’s back, gently caressing his jutting shoulder blades, his face lowered over Ross’s head, mouth and chin hidden in his thick greasy hair.

Dean glances up as Sam pushes the door open, expression brightening when he sees the mugs of coffee in his hands. He smoothes his hand over Ross’s back, down to his hip and mutters quietly: “Hey, littlest bro, look up, Sammy brought us coffee.”

He sounds like he’s talking to a five year old, using the same falsely bright tone of voice, the same note of affection and caretaking that Sam can remember from years ago, from days of being sick or injured, lying sweating under a blanket while Dean brought him Gatorade and made him soup and read to him.

Ross slowly raises his head. He stares at Sam, blinking, his gaze fluttering to the mugs of coffee in Sam’s hands.

“Is one of those for me?” he says.

Sam smiles in relief. “Yeah, yeah, ‘course, man. I wouldn’t leave you hangin’.”

He comes forward, holds the mug out to him. Ross takes it carefully, his hand trembling a little as he wraps his fingers around it.

He looks like shit. There’s no other way of saying it. Sam’s seen him look bad before, in fact the last few times he’s seen Ross: back here in New Paltz a few weeks ago, and before that – the cabin – Ross hardly looked his best, snotty, bloody, tearful, pale, but here right now, this is something else.

He looks thinner, like he’s less substantial, less _Ross-like_ , and Sam can see from the way his t-shirt hangs that he’s lost weight, muscle definition less pronounced, his shoulder blades and hip bones too prominent. It’s maybe only 20, 25 pounds, but on someone like Ross who was always pretty spare and lean, it’s really obvious. His hair looks lank and greasy, like he hasn’t washed it in a few days. His skin has that grubby, pallid sheen to it, and he smells as if he hasn’t washed in days, that intense pungent Ross-sweat smell that makes Sam’s chest tighten but also makes him gag at the same time.

Ross turns to watch him as he sips his coffee, his eyes wide and round, his face pale, cheeks a little sunken, jaw more angular than Sam remembers. Ross never had the chubby cheeks that Sam had when he was younger, but his face has never been this gaunt looking, this hard. His stomach gives a lurch and he feels a sudden breathless anger towards Sarah. Why hasn’t she noticed? How couldn’t she have seen that Ross was losing weight, not eating? Why the fuck didn’t she call them before?

But maybe this is his fault too. Out of sight, out of mind and all that, and Ross had _seemed_ okay when they last saw him. Maybe not okay exactly, but he seemed to be dealing in the best way he could and he was happy with Sarah. He knew that Ross would be back with them at some point, but he’d honestly thought that giving him this time away would be good for him, like how his own time away at Stanford had been for him.

Of course if he’s brutally honest with himself he knows that he’s been conveniently forgetting about his younger brother these past few weeks, too caught up in all that shit with Angela, in the demon-blood revelations, too caught up in Dean. Too busy worrying about Dean, about how Dean was coping with losing Dad. But Dean’s been doing better ever since the Roadhouse. Dean’s finally started to realize that Dad was fallible, that Dad could get things wrong, that Dad _did_ get things wrong, at least as far as Ross and Angela and that entire fucking mess was concerned. And realizing all that has helped. Dean’s still missing Dad, hell, Sam’s still missing Dad, but Dean’s no longer being crushed under the weight of Dad’s last words to him, Dad’s last order to stay the fuck away from Sam and Ross, and his stupid erroneous belief that he was a shitty son, a shitty brother. Dean’s finally getting some perspective.

Ross, though. God, Sam’s just as guilty as Sarah. No, he’s _more_ guilty than Sarah, because unlike her, he actually _knows_ Ross. He knows just how much Ross loved Dad. Ross is still stuck at the beginning; Ross hasn’t started to process anything, to get any perspective. Those weeks ago when they saw him last, they should’ve seen it. Ross was faking it. He was putting on a show, he was living the Winchester lie so damn well that he fooled both of them, he fooled himself. But this – whatever exactly went down with this hunt last week – it seems to have broken the levee.

Still, they can make up for it now, and Ross is already looking a little more Ross-like. He’s drinking his coffee now and responding to whatever Dean’s saying to him, talking some bullshit about do you remember that hunt back in Saginaw? The one with the fourteen year old girl spirit who wanted to date Sammy? And wasn’t it like the most hilarious thing ever?

Sam feels his mouth twitch into a smile as Dean continues. He knows exactly what Dean is doing. And he can see it having an effect, Dean’s bullshitting and teasing and wasn’t-Sammy-a-total-dweeb crap pushing Ross back into the little brother shape they remember.

Ross finishes his coffee and passes the empty mug back to Dean, blinking up at him with his big dark eyes like he can’t quite believe Dean is really there, and Sam is struck by sudden realization that Ross has been _lonely_ these past few weeks. Sure, he had Sarah, but Sarah’s not a Winchester, she’s not family. Ross is a social person; Ross needs to have family around him. Even when he was a teenager he never wanted his own space like Sam used to do, he even preferred to tag along with Sam and his friends – people he claimed to despise – than be left at home on his own. Ross hates being on his own. Sam knew that about him, and yet he and Dean still drove away and left him.

He swallows and bows his head, listening to Dean’s voice wash over them. “Hey, I don’t know about you, kiddo, but I am freakin’ famished? You want some breakfast, huh? You want Sammy to get his ass out there and do his housewifely duty and make us men-folks some eggs?”

He huffs out a breath, catching Dean’s eye, he makes a show of rolling his eyes while Dean smirks. Seriously, why does Dean cheering up Ross always have to involve the two of them ragging on him? But he can hear the note of quiet desperation in his voice, and Sam’s not going to throw a hissy fit and refuse. Of course he’s not; he’s willing to do anything to turn this strange zombie-like creature back into his bratty little brother.

Ross nods at Dean’s suggestion, and when he turns his head to look at Sam there’s a glint of the brother Sam knows in the way his mouth curls up at the corner when his eyes meet Sam’s.

A half hour later Sam’s in the kitchen, rifling through Sarah’s cupboards in a hunt for eggs and bread and anything else that looks like it could be turned into breakfast food, when he hears the bedroom door open again and Dean’s voice come floating out.

“… Man, ‘cause I didn’t wanna say this before, but you’re kinda rank, dude. Not exactly rockin’ the bed-head there either, kiddo, got enough freakin’ grease on there to deep fry a turkey.”

And then amazingly, coming through clear and familiar: “Shut up, Dean. Like you would even know what good hair was, you’ve had the same haircut for, like, forever.”

Dean laughs and Sam watches the two of them shuffle past the kitchen door and head for the bathroom. He pauses, skillet in hand, and feels the tears well up behind his eyes.

 

 

**************************************

 

They leave a few hours later. They stop by the gallery on their way out of town for Ross to say goodbye to Sarah.

The two of them kiss on the steps of the gallery and Sam and Dean lean against the car and watch. It’s so much like the last time this happened, when Ross first met Sarah all those months ago, that Sam feels momentarily disoriented, overwhelmed by just how much has happened since then. Just like last time Ross pulls away from her, though this time there’s less reluctance in his step as he turns to rejoin them. Sarah’s crying openly, her hands twisted in front of her as she watches Ross trip down the steps and into Dean’s arms, tears rolling down her face unchecked.

Dean grabs onto Ross as if he’s claiming him back and Ross sinks into him, wraps his arms around Dean’s back and buries his face in his shoulder, and Sam thinks that perhaps nothing really has changed, not fundamentally, not where it matters.

Ross sits up front with Dean for the first couple of days they’re on the road. He cries a lot, staring through the windshield into the middle distance with tears rolling down his cheeks. It’s weird and uncanny and it freaks Sam out. But as usual, Dean seems to have it, knowing in that instinctive Dean way of his what to do. He drapes an arm around Ross’s shoulders and pulls him in, driving the next couple of hundred miles one-handed, though his arm must be going dead under Ross’s weight. When they pull up at a gas station, the shoulder of Dean’s t-shirt is soaked through with Ross’s tears and snot.

The first few nights Ross and Dean share one queen and Sam takes the other. He wakes up in the middle of the night, blinks up at the ceiling and wonders what woke him, then he hears it: Ross’s sobs, Dean’s quiet whispering. He goes still and listens to his little brother’s panicked crying and Dean’s soft soothing words. He bites his lip and thinks about Ross’s face in the cabin, about Ross clinging onto him, about Ross pulling him in and kissing him over Dad’s body. He feels removed from his brother’s grief, useless and left out.

At the next motel room, he goes into the clerk’s office and gets them a king. Dean raises his eyebrows when they enter the room, but Sam shrugs, doesn’t say anything. When it’s time for bed, they all crowd into the same bed, Ross in the middle between his two brothers.

It’s the first night since leaving New Paltz that Ross sleeps through the night, and Sam feels for the first time like he’s actually helping.

 

 

The next morning Dean wakes them all up early, forces them out the door and into a five mile run. Sam’s muscles burn and his stomach cramps up, stitches like fire in his sides as he keeps pace with Ross and Dean. Ross and Dean aren’t in any better shape; the three of them have been slacking off, they haven’t had a PT session like this in weeks. Wherever Dad is, if he’s watching this, then he’s gonna be seriously pissed with them. They come to a rest in a clearing in the wood and Dean carves a rudimentary target into a tree for shooting practice, taking the guns out of the backpack he made Sam carry.

Sam sees Ross hesitate as Dean holds out the Taurus and he feels his breath catch, his brain hurtling him back to that night in the cabin, to the Colt skittering across the floor, Ross wrapped around Dad’s body, blood on his shirt.

“C’mon, little bro, you wanna beat me, right? Get a bull’s-eye?” Dean voice drags Sam out of the memories and he looks up, sees Ross shift and swallow hard, then nod and come forward to take the weapon from Dean’s hand.

He rolls his shoulders as he goes to take the shot, relaxing into the posture that Dad taught them. Ross has always been the most natural of them with a weapon; Dean might be technically the best, and it’s rare the occasion when either of them beat Dean in target practice, but Ross always looks so at home with a gun, particularly with that gun, his favorite Taurus. He raises his arm, squints, and takes the shot, bark shattering as the bullet smashes into the tree trunk.

Dean whoops and comes over to clap Ross on the back. “Nice shot, man!” He looks over his shoulder to grin at Sam. “You ain’t gonna beat that!”

“We’ll see,” Sam says, though Dean is probably right.

He takes the shot anyway and it’s not as good as Ross or Dean, but it’s pretty fucking good, and he’s pleased enough with it. Besides, it’s worth it to see the little smirk on Ross’s face, the familiar one-upmanship in his little brother’s expression when their eyes meet. Ross comes to take the weapon back from Sam and Sam shoulders him, laughing as Ross stumbles, then Ross is coming back at him, hip-checking him and putting out a foot to trip him which Sam neatly sidesteps.

It’s so much like normal that Sam’s half-expecting to hear their Dad’s voice calling them out for screwing around when they’re supposed to be training. Of course, there is no reprimand from Dad because Dad’s dead, and Dean just looks too relieved to see Ross acting like himself again to chastise either of them.

By the time they get back to the room, the three of them are panting heavily, chests heaving and sweat rolling down their faces. They’re in Alabama and it’s humid; Sam feels clammy and dirty, his t-shirt clinging to his back and shoulders. He puts on a burst of speed, overtaking Ross and Dean at the last moment to get to the room first – and more importantly, get to the bathroom first – laughing out loud when Ross and Dean’s irritated bitching follow him inside. Score one to the middle brother.

They don’t take on any jobs. They just drive; stop when and where they feel like it. The motels they choose are better than usual, with pools and cable and working air conditioning. They hang out; they play cards and watch movies. They call each other names and play-spar and take turns picking what kind of take-out to have each night. It feels like being on vacation. Not that any of them know what a vacation’s like, you don’t get vacations from hunting.

Ross calls Sarah every day. They don’t know what he says to her; both he and Dean usually make themselves scarce when Ross’s phone goes off with Sarah’s ringtone or when Ross mumbles something about calling her. Sometimes Ross is smiling afterwards, and sometimes he’s not. Sometimes he’s got that withdrawn look on his face that Sam is starting to find familiar in this new slightly off-kilter version of their brother.

Still, it’s been three weeks, and Ross has been acting more Ross-like with every passing day. He still cries occasionally, Sam still wakes up sometimes in the middle of the night so see Dean cradling and rocking Ross, Ross’s thin body wracked with sobs as he clings onto Dean, jumbles of words falling from his mouth in shaky broken sentences, _“I did it, I killed him, Dean, it was me, I killed Dad, Dad’s dead ‘cause of me, you hate me, you and Sammy hate me, it was my fault…”_ and Dean’s endless repeated reassurance: _“You did the right thing, you did what he wanted, Ross, you did what Dad wanted. He’s happy you did that, I know he is. And it’s okay, we forgive you, we love you, there’s nothing to forgive. You did the right thing…”_

Sometimes Sam will draw closer, reach out and pat Ross’s shoulders, run his hands soothingly up and down Ross’s shaking back, mutter soft indistinguishable words, backing up whatever Dean’s saying to him. But most of the time, he lets Dean handle it. Dean is now Ross’s voice of authority. Ross just needs to start believing in it, just as he used to believe in Dad.

They stick to the southern states, to Louisiana and Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia, states where it’s still hot enough in October to use the outdoor pools. They stay a few days at a motel outside of Lake Charles, and Sam makes the most of the pool. He swims laps in the mornings until his body aches all over. Dean and Ross join him half-way through, but they have less patience with swimming laps, not as at home in the water as he is. The three of them race and Sam wins, beating both his brothers by several feet. He raises his arms in victory, water sloshing around him, ridiculously happy that for once he’s managed to come out on top in something physical.

“Whatever, swimming’s like totally the lamest sport,” Ross bitches.

“You’re just a sore loser,” Sam says with a shrug.

Ross sticks his tongue out at him, and then he’s surging outof the water, jumping on top of Sam and trying to dunk him, shouting at Dean to give him a hand. Dean comes hollering through the water towards them, reaching and grabbing for slick slippery limbs. They play-fight and splash each other, and afterwards, they have holding-your-breath-underwater and dive-bomb competitions, and it’s just like when they were kids, and Sam is still the champion at holding his breath for the longest under water.

Dean disappears the next day, goes off somewhere to earn them some money, so Sam and Ross hang out at the pool again. The motel’s empty apart from them and a couple of older retired couples in a Winnebago. Sam does a few lazy laps and pulls himself out to sprawl on the concrete, turning his face up towards the sun and closing his eyes against the bright glare.

He looks over when he hears the rattle of the rusted gate that screens off the pool area, sees Ross come inside, towel slung around his neck and sunscreen in one hand. Their eyes meet and Sam watches his brother’s gaze run down his body as if he’s tracking one of the water droplets rolling down his chest. A warm buzz of heat snaps awake in his belly and his mouth goes dry as he watches Ross pad across the concrete towards him. His cock is stirring in his soaked trunks and he can’t take his eyes off the play of the muscles in Ross’s chest and stomach.

He’s horny, he knows he is. He and Dean haven’t done anything since Ross joined them three and a half weeks ago. It hasn’t felt right to do anything – for either of them. But knowing that doesn’t help. He’s jerked off in the shower a few times, but that’s barely taken the edge off it, and sharing a double bed with both his brothers every night is definitely not helping.

Ross sinks down beside him, sitting close enough for their knees to jog together. He drops the towel and sunscreen onto the concrete and turns his head, stares back at Sam.

“Hey,” he says.

Sam blinks, says, “Hey.”

Ross’s mouth twitches, and Sam watches his eyes rove all over him, drink him in greedily.

“You know, you look hot when you’re all naked and wet,” he says. He licks his lips, deliberate and teasing, a total come-on, then he gets smoothly to his feet and dives into the pool.

Sam swears under his breath – fucking tease – his brother is a fucking tease. Did he get pointers from Dean or has he always been that much of a fucking tease? He guesses it’s a moot point.

He gets to his feet and dives in after him.

The water is startlingly cool after being in the sun for a while, but Sam barely notices. He swims the length of the pool, pulls up at the other end – the shallow end – where Ross is leaning back against the edge, a smirk playing across his face.

“You’re a fuckin’ tease, you know that,” Sam tells him.

Ross just chuckles, puts his hand around the back of Sam’s neck and pulls him into a kiss.

 

 

[Onto Chapter 25, part II](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/35425.html)


	26. Chapter 26

Dean only manages to make $250. It’s not too bad but it’s not exactly what he was hoping for either. The cards Sam took from Dad’s wallet are still holding out okay, but they need cash. It just means he’s going to have to head out again tomorrow, maybe hit some of those bars around the McNeese campuses, challenge some of the jock students and idiot frat boys to a game of pool, maybe hone in on a poker game. Anyway, it just means more fucking work for him.

He grits his teeth as he pulls into the motel parking lot. He hates to say it, but running the hustles was easier before when he and Sam were working together, Sammy playing the part of good boy to his bad boy. It was ridiculous how many people fell for that shit. But that’s not possible right now ‘cause there’s no freaking way either of them are leaving Ross on his own for any length of time, and truthfully, he’s not even sure Ross would even agree to being left alone; their youngest brother has gotten real clingy ever since – well, ever since.

Sam and Ross are standing over the shitty little stove in the kitchenette area of the room, shoulder to shoulder, their voices raised in that familiar bickering tone – nothing new there. What is new is the smell of roasting meat emanating from the stove and the saucepans bubbling away on top of it.

“What the fuck?” Dean says as he shuts the door behind him.

Sam and Ross spin around looking red-faced, sweaty and very pleased with themselves.

“Oh hey, man, we’re makin’ dinner,” Ross announces cheerfully.

“Uh, yeah, I can see that, but what the fuck’re you making?”

“Chicken,” says Sam. “It’s in the oven, roasting. We’re also doing mashed potatoes and carrots and beans and Ross is attempting to make gravy, ‘cept it looks more like beef stew.”

“Oh, fuck you, my gravy’s awesome!” protests Ross, turning back towards the stove top and stirring one of the pots – obviously the gravy.

“Oh right,” Dean says. “Well, I guess that’s good. Let me know when it’s done, I’m gonna shower.”

The food isn’t half bad, to Dean’s surprise, taking into consideration the fact this is possibly the first time the two of them have cooked anything on their own together _ever_. They both seem immensely pleased with themselves and spend the entire meal demanding praise and kudos for the way they’ve diced the freaking carrots to the amount of salt they put in the mashed potatoes, not to mention Ross’s precious gravy. Dean praises them because he’s totally whipped as a brother, though it’s kinda worth it to see the matching blinding smiles on their faces when he asks for second helpings.

“So what else did you two do today apart from make me dinner?” he asks after he’s eaten his fill.

He’s a little surprised to see the two of them exchange a quick glance, then Ross turns back to him with an evil grin. “Sammy jizzed in the pool.”

“Fuck you, so did you!” Sam retorts, eyes narrowing in on Ross’s gleeful expression.

Dean raises his eyebrows, looks between the two of them. “Uh? What?”

“We jerked each other off in the pool,” Ross explains, casting Dean a sly sideways look. “And made out a lot. It was hot.”

“Well ain’t that nice for the two of you,” Dean says.

He’s feeling unaccountably annoyed by this. He’s not jealous, of course he ain’t, it’s just that –

Fuck it; he spent the entire freaking day trying to earn them some goddamn money while they spent the entire day fucking around in the pool together. Must be nice.

He jerks his chair away from the table and heads outside for a smoke.

He stands on the porch smoking and wondering which of them is going to come outside to talk to him. Whoever it is, he just hopes the other one makes a start on the goddamn dishes, he’s so not in the mood for domestic chores.

The door opens behind him and he turns around. It’s Ross. Figures.

“Can I bum a cigarette?” asks Ross.

Dean lets out a long-suffering sigh, but he hands his pack over to his younger brother, along with his lighter. Ross lights up and leans against the side of the wall, legs crossed at the ankles, shoulder against the brickwork.

“Are you mad about me and Sam?” he asks. He’s giving Dean that same sly look out of the corner of his eye, like he’s trying to provoke Dean – which he is, he totally is. Dean supposes that it’s got to be a good sign, a sign that Ross is getting back to his normal bratty self, but it’s still fucking annoying and Dean is not gonna rise to it.

He gives a one-shouldered shrug, says, “Nah. Why would I be?”

“I know the two of you ain’t been fuckin’ around like normal,” Ross says. He curls his mouth up into a wicked smirk. “Sam went off like a freakin’ geyser; it was kinda funny, dude, like rivers of spunk.”

Dean rolls his eyes at him while Ross snickers to himself. He doesn’t bother replying.

“I’ve known about you and Sam for years, Dean. I can deal with it. You don’t need to, like, quit or whatever for my sake. I ain’t some delicate flower that’s gonna, like, fall apart just ‘cause you and Sammy are knockin’ boots all the freakin’ time. I’m used to it, man, and you know, seriously, blue balls ain’t funny.”

Dean takes a long toke on his cigarette. If he’s honest with himself then it has been hard – yeah, haha – to keep his hands off Sam for the past month. But Ross’s wellbeing is more important. Ross’s wellbeing is _the_ most important thing in all their lives at the moment. Sam gets that, hell, Sam was the one who insisted that they go cold turkey for as long as necessary.

“You gotta quit worrying about me, Deano,” Ross continues. “I’ll be alright.”

Dean raises his head and actually looks at his brother. Ross is watching him intently, his dark eyes round and sincere. Dean blinks, his chest tightening, throat getting dry. He clears his throat and beckons Ross over. “Hey, c’mere.”

Ross takes the few steps towards him and Dean grabs onto him, drapes one arm around his shoulders, pulling him in.

“I ain’t never gonna quit worrying about you,” he says. “You know you’re my number one priority.”

“What about Sammy?”

“You and Sammy are my number one priority,” he corrects.

Ross snickers and leans his head so his forehead presses against the side of Dean’s face. “I know,” he says quietly.

 

********************************

 

They go for a five-mile run before breakfast the next day. It’s the fourth time that week and he can already feel his body getting back into the swing of it, feeling as if he could go another five miles no problem. He decides that tomorrow they’ll do six or seven miles, keep building up their strength and stamina; their endurance has taken a hit these past few months.

They have to go back to hunting at some point, it’s their job, it’s what the three of them do. There are people out there that count on people like them. Anyway, he misses it, he feels itchy and strange without it, like he’s missing something vital about himself – which he guesses he pretty much is.

He takes the first shower this time. Ross and Sam grumble but they give in for once. He’s got to head out anyway, got to earn them some more goddamn cash while Ross and Sam are probably gonna just spend the day making out and jerking each other off in the pool again.

“Hey, why don’t you do some fuckin’ laundry while I’m out?” he calls out as he picks up his keys and jacket.

Sam looks up from the laptop with a frown while Ross pokes his head out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his head and toothbrush dangling out one side of his mouth, foam painting his lips.

“Wha-?” he squawks.

Dean sighs, says, “You heard. You and Sam get your horny asses down the block and into the first freakin’ laundromat you find. I need some clean underwear.”

Ross removes the toothbrush from his mouth, speaks around the mouthful of foam, white drool rolling down his chin and onto his (Dean’s) grey Henley.

“Yeah, Jesus, don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Dean gives him the finger before he leaves.

Hitting the college bars turns out to be a genius idea. He wins another $250 at pool in the first place, pickings as easy as any he’s had before. In the second place, he gets chatting to a group of sorority girls who tell him all about this party over at the Phi-Beta-Alpha frat, how the guys there have these games of poker that are kinda notorious for their high stakes. He gives the girls a lift to the frat house and walks into what feels like a scene from Animal House, scanty-clad girls playing beer pong and hot shirtless dudes doing keg stands. Seriously, sometimes he wonders why the fuck he never rebelled and went to college instead of Sam. He’d’ve made a much more awesome college student than Sam ever did.

The poker game’s going down in one of the bedrooms upstairs and one of the chicks from the bar, Cindy, leads him to it, announcing to the assembled douchebags that he wants to join. They eye him warily at first but when he drops $400 onto the table in front of them, they let him buy his way in.

They’re the usual bunch of rich poser assholes and none of them can play for shit, though they’re all under the delusion that they can. He drops $100 in the first couple of games and he can see their faces light up, assuming they’ve got an easy mark here. He makes $200 on the third game, loses $50 in the fourth and then makes $800 on the last.

By that point the smiles have completely worn off their faces and he ends up having to make a strategic and very fast exit, only accomplished with Cindy’s help. He kisses her up against the side of the car by way of thanks and she slips him her number on a cocktail napkin. He feels bad for using her in this way, but he still lets the cocktail napkin flutter from his fingers and out the rolled down driver’s window as he drives back to the motel. He hasn’t screwed around with anyone who wasn’t related to him in almost a year, he’s not gonna change things now when it’s more important than ever for them to stick together.

Besides, Sam would know if he did do something, Sam always knows.

It’s after 3am by the time he makes it back. It’s not late for them, but he’s still expecting to see Sam and Ross in bed asleep. So he’s surprised when he pushes open the motel room door to the lingering scent of pot, the sounds of lip-smacking and moaning, and the image of a topless Sam sprawled back in one of the straight-backed chairs, a topless Ross straddling him, and the two of them macking on each other like they’re auditioning for soft-core porn.

Dean pauses in the doorway, blinks once, then twice, and _stares_. Ross and Sam haven’t noticed that they’ve got company; still making out, eating each other’s faces like – like – like sex-starved teenagers in the backseat, parked up on lovers’ lane. Sam’s got one enormous hand on Ross’s waist, spanning his back, fingers digging into his spine, his other hand at the back of Ross’s neck, long fingers disappearing into Ross’s hair. Ross is rocking into him, grinding his erection down into – _Jesus_ – Sam’s own erection, a fucking tent pole in his partially unbuttoned jeans, Ross’s hands cradling Sam’s face, forcing his head back to get better access to Sam’s mouth.

Dean clears his throat and slams the door.

Ross and Sam pull apart with comical swiftness, Ross swaying and clutching onto Sam’s bare shoulder to stop himself from falling. Together, the two of them turn their heads, and gaze back at him with identical red-rimmed, pot-swollen eyes.

“I see the two of you found something better to do than the fuckin’ laundry,” Dean says.

Slowly Ross and Sam turn their heads to look at each other again, then as if on cue, they both burst into peels of annoying, pot-addled snickering. “Oh man, quit it with the fuckin’ laundry!” Sam breathes between giggles.

Dean rolls his eyes hard and strides into the room, peeling off his jacket and dropping it on one of the beds, the roll of bills next to it. He forgets how fucking _infuriating_ dealing with stoned people can be.

“Where’d you get the weed?” he asks.

“The Laundromat,” says Ross, and that’s it – another freaking laughing fit. Obviously Dean just isn’t in on the fucking joke, and Jesus, Ross and Sam are _baked._

“You save some for me?” he snaps.

“Course we did,” says Sam, sounding hurt by the accusation. “Didn’t we, Ross?”

Ross nods eagerly, turning to look at Dean with overly wide, overly earnest, unfocussed eyes. “Course we did, Deano. You know we’d never hold out on you, man, can’t believe you think we would.”

Dean swallows and nods at him, a little mollified by Ross’s (albeit wasted) sincerity, and okay, also maybe a little mollified by how fucking hot the two of them look together. Half naked, bare chests and bare feet, the buttons of their jeans popped, chests and faces flushed pink with arousal and pot, hair tousled, mouths bruised and slick with each other’s saliva. He watches Sam lick his lips, skim one hand down Ross’s bare back until it’s hovering over the gaping back of Ross’s jeans; Sam holds out his other hand towards Dean, fingers twitching.

“Hey, c’mere,” he says.

Dean swallows, takes a couple of hesitant steps towards them. Ross is reaching for the half-smoked joint lying discarded in the ashtray on the table, picking up the lighter (Dean’s favorite Zippo, goddamnit) with his other hand.

“Dean…” Sam says, all soft and low and teasing. His eyes gleam when they meet Dean’s, hot and hungry; he slides his hand into the back of Ross's jeans, spreading his fingers under the worn denim, cupping his ass. Ross groans and writhes on Sam’s lap, grinding down into Sam’s hard muscled thighs, eyes momentarily fluttering closed as he fumbles to spark up the jay in his fingers.

Sam smirks and flexes the fingers of his outstretched hand again, fingertips brushing against the edge of Dean’s flannel. Dean’s eyes are still focused on Sam’s other hand, the one lodged down Ross’s pants. He’s transfixed by the way the denim of Ross’s jeans mould around it, the way Sam’s gorgeous long fingers seem to fold around the globes of Ross’s ass.

“Dean…” Sam repeats.

Dean drags his gaze away from Ross’s ass, looks down into Sam’s upturned face, the glittering slant of his eyes. He watches Sam lick his lips, tongue coming out to slick at the already bruised and fleshy pink. Jesus, he’s hard already, feeling himself draw inexorably closer, letting Sam pull him in.

“Come join us, Dean. We were having so much fun,” Sam adds with a sly sideways look at Ross.

Ross exhales a long stream of smoke and giggles, more smoke seeping through his nostrils. “So much fun,” he repeats breathily, turning his face to stare up at Dean.

“Give me some of that,” Dean tells him.

Ross shakes his head, then grins, loose and sloppy. “Nah, you have to do it another way,” he says.

He sucks on the jay again, looking straight at Dean – a challenge in his eyes – and Dean knows exactly what his little brother has in mind. His mouth twitches and he leans in closer, bending down, letting Ross grab onto his collar and pull him in. Ross puts his mouth on Dean’s, humming, murmuring something, and Dean opens up, lets Ross in – along with a lungful of pungent smoke – he sucks it down, taking in the blow-back, feeling his throat sting and his eyes water. Ross pulls away, and Dean breathes in and out again, his lips hot and tingling where his brother’s mouth has been. He shakes his head, feeling suddenly fuzzy, and reaches to take the joint from Ross’s hand.

He takes a couple more tokes. For some reason, pot always has a strong effect on him, getting into his limbs and his brain, making him loose and easy and foggy. It’s a good sensation and he wonders why the hell they haven’t done this before. This is exactly what they need; this is exactly what Ross needs. Today is turning out to be a good day; he’s made enough money to last them for a couple of weeks, Sam’s already half-naked, and Ross is here. Ross is back with them where he belongs, where Dean can keep an eye on him and look out for him and make sure that nothing crappy ever happens to him ever again.

He places a hand on the top of Ross’s head, smoothes his fingers through his shaggy hair. Ross makes a purring sound and tilts his head back to blink up at him, the angle making him look younger, dark eyes boring into Dean’s face. Dean swallows to force away the niggle of guilt, and smiles down at his brother, the heavy burn of overwhelming affection and protection in his gut pouring out of him along with the tangy smoke.

God, he loves his brothers so much, it’s crazy how much he loves them. He’d do anything to make them happy.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says.

Ross smiles back at him, slack and lazy and totally fucking _baked_. “Hey, Deano,” he says.

“Let’s take this to the bed,” Sam says.

Dean takes a step back, the joint smoldering between two fingers. He watches Sam tip Ross off his lap, the two of them collapsing into more giggles as Ross grabs onto Sam to steady himself, fingers curled around Sam’s bicep. Sam grabs him back, manhandling and forcing him around until he’s holding Ross from behind, long Sammy arms wrapped around Ross’s chest, pulling him back into his body.

Dean holds his breath, feels his cock throb as he watches Sam slide his hand into Ross’s hair and force his head to one side, exposing a long gleaming line of neck. Sam lowers his head and licks Ross’s throat, tongue pink and slippery as it slides along Ross’s glistening skin. Ross groans and grinds his ass back against Sam’s body. Sam looks up, meeting Dean’s eyes as he slowly drags his other hand down Ross’s chest and belly, caressing and smoothing and tracing the defined lines of Ross’s muscles, his ribs and abs, down to splay his enormous fingers over the blatant line of Ross’s cock in his faded jeans.

Ross shudders back against Sam, voice gone low and begging, “Sam, c’mon, man, please, quit bein’ such a tease.”

Sam chuckles, he clicks his tongue, looking straight at Dean. “So impatient, littlest bro, always so fuckin’ impatient. Right, Dean?”

Dean exhales a stream of smoke, stares back into Sam’s dark lidded eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Right, Sammy.”

He moves to stub out the remains of the joint in the ashtray. He can feel their eyes tracking him, and he rolls his shoulders, enjoying it, loving the attention, both his little brothers watching him. They might’ve been fooling around while he was out, making out and getting high and touching each other like a pair of horny teenagers blowing off steam, but he knows that they were both just waiting for him – waiting for their big brother to come home and tell them what to do – and he’s gonna do just that. He’s gonna give the two of them what they want.

Though, maybe, perhaps he shouldn’t…

Perhaps they shouldn’t be doing this, the three of them. After all, he had had a plan before – before Dad and Sarah and Angela and demon blood – he was going to keep away from Ross, give Ross a chance at happiness and a real decent life that wasn’t part of the incestuous Winchester freak-show.

But that was before, and before didn’t work, before made Ross unhappy. He saw it with his own eyes; Ross tangled up in that fancy double bed under that expensive duvet, Ross with the tears rolling unchecked down his checks, Ross refusing to eat, Sarah helpless in the face of Ross’s grief and loss.

Ross has been getting better since he got back with them; Ross is eating normally again, slowly regaining the weight he lost, they’re getting back into a proper training regime. Ross is almost back to his old cocky self, which all goes to show that what Ross really needs is family – him and Sam. The three of them belong together. They understand each other; they know how each one works and they know how to put each other back together. Hell, Sam obviously saw that way before him, ‘cause Sam’s been giving Ross what he needs. Who knows how many times Ross and Sammy have made out or fucked around when he’s not been around?

Still, he’s around now, and he’s not missing out this time.

He peels off his flannel, tossing it to the floor. His boots are next, then his socks, ‘cause he always feels stupid having sex with his socks on. He removes his t-shirt more slowly, making a show of it, feeling their eyes rake over his naked chest and back, seeing Sam lick his lips, involuntary and lascivious, Ross’s eyes wide and feverish as they drink him in.

Finally, he tugs down his jeans and his boxers. He sits on the edge of the bed, pats the mattress beside him. “Come here, kiddo,” he says.

Sam chuckles and releases his hold on Ross. Ross slinks away from him and stumbles towards the bed. He sinks to the mattress beside Dean. Dean gives him a reassuring smile and Ross shifts even closer, leaning in and opening his mouth against the muscle of Dean’s shoulder, his mouth wet and warm, tongue coming out to lap at Dean’s skin, taste him. Dean shivers and feels the mattress dip again as Sam slides in on Ross’s other side, completely naked, big gorgeous cock bobbing against his belly.

Together they push Ross backwards onto the bed, tugging off his jeans and boxers, while Ross lies there, docile and compliant, looking up at them with wild flushed eyes, fingers outstretched to grab onto Dean when he rears back into view. Dean lets Ross pull him in, kisses him hungrily when their mouths meet. He tries to put everything he’s feeling – the guilt and love and unbearable affection into the kiss – tries to make Ross see that he loves him, that every mistake he’s made (and he’s made a helluva lot) has been for Ross’s good, that he’s sorry for pushing him away, so sorry for all the hurt he’s caused him.

He pulls away, panting, cradles Ross’s face, smoothing his fingers over every inch of his brother’s face. He can’t help but see the resemblance now, not just the resemblance to Dad, to Sammy, that reassuring Winchester resemblance that’s always been there, but the new one: the one that’s Angela and George and reminders of everything Ross has been denied, everything Dean’s still keeping from him. Ross has been denied so much over the years, Dean is not going to deny him this – deny him himself – anymore. If Ross wants his big brother to love him or make out with him or even fuck him then Dean will give him that. He owes it to Ross.

Ross smiles and opens his eyes, stares up at Dean. “It’s about time. Took you long enough to get over yourself.”

“Little punk,” he says fondly.

Ross makes a face at him, then turns his head to look at Sam who’s been hovering next to them, watching the two of them with this expression on his face that could be described as benevolent, if it wasn’t for the way he’s touching himself, hand stroking up and down his cock, fondling his balls.

“Sammy, how about you get over here and suck me off,” Ross says.

Dean laughs out loud, Ross turns to grin at him, like they’re sharing a joke; he looks pleased with himself, propping himself up on one elbow to beckon Sam over. Dean shifts to one side, making room for Sam who slots in between Ross’s legs, enormous hands on Ross’s thighs, parting them, face hovering over Ross’s engorged dick.

Dean licks his lips, shuffles backwards until he’s against the headboard, puts one hand on his own throbbing dick. He has a feeling he’s going to enjoy this.

“Whatcha waitin’ for?” says Ross, a hint of antagonism and challenge and little-brother teasing in his voice.

Sam makes a noise in the back of his throat and leans down to suck the head of Ross’s cock into his mouth.

 _“Oh man, oh God, fuck…”_ Ross curses. _“Oh Christ, so good, Sam…”_

Dean stifles a groan and jerks his fist up and down his cock. Jesus, they look good together, Sam gliding his lips up and down his younger brother’s dick, Ross arching up into it, more and more gone with each thrust into Sam’s mouth. Ross is whimpering and writhing under Sam, babbling away, and that’s one thing Dean remembers from all those months before – just how goddamn _noisy_ their youngest brother is when he’s having sex, just how fucking into it he gets, how he just can’t fucking shut up. But Ross has always been incapable of being quiet. Ross could never have survived all those years of keeping quiet and hiding from Dad and sneaking around. Ross would’ve given the game away straight off. Ross has sex just as he does everything else in his life – noisy and needy and look-at-me.

Sam pulls off, lets Ross’s cock slide out his mouth and slap back against his flat hard belly, glistening and painfully red and swollen.

Ross looks up, scowls at him, red-faced and panting. “You ain’t finished,” he tells him. “Sam, c’mon, you can’t leave me hangin’, man. Quit teasin’.”

But Sam’s on a roll, smiling smugly and evilly down at his little brother, and then he’s surging up Ross’s body, fisting his hand in Ross’s hair and yanking him into a kiss, heavy and bruising and dominating. Ross protests, but gets with the program immediately, grabs onto Sam with equal ruthlessness, fingers digging into Sam’s back, scratching and leaving marks as he tries to get purchase against Sam’s bigger body, any chance to tussle with Sammy.

The two of them are half-way between fighting and fucking, snarling and growling and grinding their cocks into each other’s stomachs, spitting and cursing at each other between kisses and bites, and seriously, if it didn’t look so fucking hot and if Dean wasn’t so damn turned on right now then he’d be screaming at them, pulling them apart and yelling at them to quit it already. But he’s so damn close to blowing his load. He jerks his fist up and down his cock, fingers cupping his balls, dragging light fingernails over his sac.

Ross growls and pushes his feet down into the mattress, getting purchase and rolling the two of them, sheets and pillows sliding and catching around them, until Ross is on top, Sam below him. Ross grinds his hips down into Sam, grabs onto one of Sam’s flailing arms by the wrist and pins it down. Dean gets a flash of his little brother’s mouth, his teeth sinking into the meat of Sam’s shoulder, seeing Sam buck up into it, his dark eyes wild, one foot hooked around Ross’s body, heel drumming into Ross’s ass as he arches up.

 _“Jesus Christ,”_ Dean groans. They should be filming this; they’d make a fucking fortune from it. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, watches the two of them come, watches Ross squirm his free hand between their two bodies, jerk at his own cock until he’s painting Sam’s body with his release, watches Sam go deadly still, familiar tremors snaking through his muscles, familiar gasping sounds falling from his lips as he follows, Ross’s fingers now around Sam’s dick, helping him to pump out his own release.

Done and spent, Ross sits back on his haunches, ass on Sam’s thighs. His chest is heaving, pupils so wide his eyes look black, hair a crazy tangle sticking to his forehead and temples and neck with sweat. He swings his gaze to Dean, lips parting in a breathless moan when his eyes fall on Dean’s hand, still working his own cock, but getting so close.

“Dean…” he murmurs.

Sam jerks his head Dean’s way at Ross’s words, gaze narrowing in laser-focused on Dean’s cock, tongue slicking hungrily over his lips. “Jesus, so fuckin’ hot, Dean.”

That’s it, he’s done. He can’t take the two of them watching him, the matching appreciation and lust in their eyes, the smell of their combined come and sweat filling his nostrils. He cries out and comes, pumping his fist and striping his belly with his release.

Afterwards they clean themselves up, half-hearted and half-assed, using one of Ross’s discarded t-shirts, though littlest bro pitches a mini fit about it.

“Why’s it always my stuff that gets used for the shitty jobs? Ain’t fuckin’ fair.”

“Shut up, you’re the youngest,” Sam says as if it’s a good enough reason, and fuck it, it _is_ a good enough reason, and Ross should know that by now.

“Yep, suck it up, dude, older brothers’ privilege,” Dean adds.

“Fuck you both,” Ross retorts automatically, giving him the finger. He slides off the bed, buck naked, and saunters over to the table to fetch the remains of the bag of weed and the rolling papers, dumping the lotl onto the mattress in front of Dean and instructing him to roll another one.

Dean does what Ross asks because he’s by far the best of them at rolling joints that will actually stay together. Sam and Ross can’t roll for shit; in fact, he’s kinda impressed that they even managed it without him. They pass it around and it’s good, it’s really good. It’s the three of them hanging out together and getting wasted and just – just – enjoying each other’s company in a way that Dean’s almost forgotten, it’s been so damn long.

He pulls Ross to him, and Ross goes eagerly, climbs into the v of his thighs and nestles back against his chest, head under Dean’s chin and hair in Dean’s mouth. It’s the same position he used to take when he was a kid, when he’d climb into Dad’s lap, or when Dad wasn’t around, Dean’s lap, nuzzle into him and demand attention and affection with that pure-hearted, little kid need. It’s reassuring to know that despite everything that has happened to him, despite everything he’s lost and what a shit-heap his life’s been these past few months, there are certain parts of Ross that will never change. Ross will always need Dean to love him.

Dean puts his mouth to Ross’s head, presses his lips to his hair and kisses him softly, feeling the tears well up in his eyes. This would be the time to tell him everything he and Sam have learned since Dad’s death – right now – while he’s happy and relaxed and they’re together. Dean could tell him now and Ross might take it okay, enclosed in his brother’s arms and coming down from his orgasm, from the weed. Ross might understand, he might forgive them – forgive Dad – for keeping him in the dark.

Then again, to ruin this moment would be cruel, and Dean’s content, he’s happy; he’s got his two brothers close, within touching distance. He can’t bring himself to ruin it.

Ross passes the jay back to Sam and twists in Dean’s lap, turns to face Dean, reaching up with both hands to cradle Dean’s face. He slides his legs around Dean, curling them around Dean’s hips, slotting their bodies together, then he leans in and kisses him. Dean kisses him back, lazy and affectionate kisses, long slow swoops of tongue and the soft murmured hums of Ross whispering his name into his mouth until it’s just a meaningless reverberation: “Dean, Dean, Dean…”

From the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam stub out the remains of the joint, shuffle across the mattress towards them until he’s slotting in behind Ross, winding his arms around Ross’s chest from the back until Ross pulls away from Dean and sighs out, angling his head to meet Sam’s mouth. Dean watches the two of them make out, he watches Sam’s hand skim downwards until he’s cupping Ross’s cock, fingering his balls.

This time is slow and languorous and it’s all three of them. It’s Ross caught between him and Sam, held carefully between the two of them like something precious. Sam cradles Ross when Dean finishes him off, when he kisses down his youngest brother’s chest and stomach, when he sucks his cock into his mouth. Sam holds Ross in his arms and Dean sucks his dick. Ross comes in Dean’s mouth and Dean sloshes Ross’s jizz around his mouth for a couple of seconds before he spits it out into his hand, using it to coat his fingers, instructing Sam to roll over so he can open him up. Ross watches wide-eyed, lip caught between his teeth, as Dean works his come-coated fingers in and out of Sam’s hole, until Sam’s ready and begging for it, desperate for Dean to fuck him, lubed up with their little brother’s spunk.

Sam’s on all fours, ass in the air and Dean’s pushing into him, eyes fluttering closed as he slides inside his brother’s body. He opens them again and sees Ross sprawled back against the headboard, still staring at them, lip still caught between his teeth, expression mesmerized.

Dean fucks into Sam, a steady inexorable pace, one hand braced on the wrecked bed, the other on the back of Sam’s neck, fingers tangled in his hair. Sam meets every thrust, pushes back onto Dean’s cock, bottoming him out, and it’s glorious, it’s so fucking good. God, he loves fucking Sam. Sure, he loves getting fucked by Sam – he ain’t picky about which way round they do it – but, _Christ_ , he really does love fucking Sam.

Sam makes a noise and Dean doesn’t quite figure out what he’s saying, too gone in his haze of lust and _nearly there, nearly there, Jesus Christ, you feel good_ , until he watches Ross slide forward, grab onto Sam’s outstretched hand, Sam’s enormous fingers curling around Ross’s, and then he recognizes the word as Ross’s name, Sam moaning Ross’s name under his breath.

Dean pauses, leans forward over Sam’s body, presses his lips to the nape of Sam’s neck, licks at the top ridge of his spine.

“Sammy,” he whispers, “taste so good, feel so good.” He feels Sam shiver beneath him and he raises his eyes, meets Ross’s gaze. “You with us, littlest bro?”

Ross gives a quick jerk of his head, swallowing hard, breath catching as he mutters: “Yeah, Dean, yeah. With you.”

“Good boy,” Dean says; he smiles at Ross. “Stay with us.”

He speeds up, snapping his hips faster, pulse racing, blood beating so hard in his head he can’t hear himself breathe. Underneath him Sam is panting for breath, and he blinks, hips stuttering when he sees Ross’s hand disappear beneath Sam’s body – Ross’s hand jacking Sam’s cock, Ross’s hand pulling Sam’s orgasm from him, Ross’s eyes locked on Sam’s face. He feels Sam’s orgasm hit him, Sam’s ass clenching around him, Sam shaking beneath him.

Sam groans and grabs onto the back of Ross’s neck, wrenching him forward into a kiss which Ross meets hungrily, murmuring Sam’s name into Sam’s mouth, and that’s it – it’s all over for Dean, he’s shooting his load up Sam’s ass, filling Sam’s hole with his own spunk - Sam’s hole that’s now leaking both his brothers’ spunk.

He slides away when he’s done, falls backwards into the tangle of sheets and blankets, chest heaving up and down.

It’s a couple of minutes before one of them speaks, and then Ross says: “Okay, so next time, I’m doin’ that too.”

Dean looks up at the sound of his brother’s voice. He rolls onto his front, props his chin up on his hands, raises an eyebrow at his youngest brother.

“You want in on the ass stuff? Thought you hated all that.”

“Not if it’s that damn hot,” Ross says. He prods Sam in the side with his foot. “Hey, Sammy, how about next time, I fuck Dean and Dean fucks you? It’ll be awesome – like a Dean sandwich.”

Dean gulps, ‘cause Jesus, okay, yeah, that could work. He could definitely get with that program.

Sam chuckles. “I think we could work with that.”

Ross beams. “Man, I totally always have the best ideas.”

 

***********************************

 

The sun starts to rise but they’re all still awake. They’re still on the bed – the debauched, ransacked, fucking _destroyed_ bed - and Dean’s smoking a cigarette while Sam lies on his front at the foot of the bed, legs dangling off the side, feet brushing the carpet, laptop in front of him. He’s probably surfing porn, but Dean’s too lazy to even ask, and Ross is running his mouth, telling them all about that fucked-up hunt he and Sarah went on a few weeks back, the one responsible for his melt-down, the one with the vegetarian vampires and deranged hunter who supposedly knew Dad.

“You know that guy will probably come after us?” Sam says, speaking into one of Ross’s long rambling pauses.

“Huh?” Ross reaches to pry the half-smoked cigarette from Dean’s fingers as he looks at Sam.

“That hunter guy – Gordon Walker – I asked Bobby about him and he said he’s a hard-ass. He has a rep for being dangerous, and for holding a grudge. There’s not many other hunters who’ll work with him. I think it’s safe to say that he’s gonna come after us at some point. You humiliated him.”

Ross shrugs defensively. “Yeah, so? He deserved it. Anyway, I totally iced him last time. So even if he, like, tries to come after me this time, he’ll be even more SOL, ‘cause it’ll be the three of us, right?”

“Damn straight,” Dean agrees, because there’s no fucking way any hunter, no matter how bad-ass or how good at holding grudges he is, is getting close to his brother.

Ross nods forcefully. “Yeah, so don’t worry, Sammy, me and Deano’ll protect you.”

Sam makes a face at him. “Never said I was worried. Just making a point.”

They go quiet for a while; Ross finishes the rest of Dean’s cigarette, leans over him to stub it out in the ashtray on Dean’s nightstand. Ross settles back down into the bed, hunkering down as if he’s finally thinking about going to sleep. Dean slides down next to him, prodding Sam with his foot at the end of the bed. Sam grabs onto his foot, curls his fingers around Dean’s ankle and brings it to his lips, nips gently at Dean’s instep, at his ankle, looking at Dean through his eyelashes. Dean shivers at the sensation, seeing Sam smile at him and press one last kiss to the arch of his foot before he drops it, leans over the bed to close the computer and place it carefully on the floor.

Sam crawls up the bed towards them, slides under the covers – what’s left of the covers – on Ross’s other side. Dean watches him with heavy eyes, feeling the exhaustion finally seep into him. Sam stretches to fumble off the light, though it’s pretty pointless since dawn is creeping under the curtains.

Sam’s breathing heavy and even on the other side of the bed, a sure sign that he’s asleep, and Dean is almost there, so close to drifting off when Ross’s voice disturbs him, pulling him half awake.

“Dean?” Ross whispers.

He blinks his eyes open. Ross is sharing his pillow, his face only inches from Dean’s, eyes shiny in the dawn-light.

“What?” Dean whispers back.

He sees his brother swallow, the look on his face troubled, guilty even. “Do you think – this counts? Like, with Sarah? Do you think us – what we just did counts? Like as cheating? Or, like, me and Sam?”

“No,” says Dean truthfully.

He sees Ross blink, the relief on his face. “Oh, good, that’s what I thought, but I, like, I wasn’t sure.”

“This is us – you and me and Sam,” Dean tells him. “It’s different. Don’t feel bad ‘cause of it.”

Ross licks his lips, says quietly, “Okay.” There’s a pause, though Dean can tell that Ross isn’t done yet, that he has something else to say. He lifts up a hand, brushes Ross’s hair gently back from his face. “What is it?” he says.

Ross blinks again, says, “I don’t think I’m gonna go back to her.”

“Do you want to go back to her?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. I really like her still. I like being her boyfriend.”

His eyes are wide, expression so forlorn that it’s painful; the ache in Dean’s chest is painful. He leans in, presses a kiss to his forehead. “Just go to sleep now, we can talk about it tomorrow. We’ll figure it out then, okay?”

Ross nods, murmurs, “Okay, okay, Dean.”

His eyes close and he nuzzles his face back into the pillow. Dean stays awake and watches him fall asleep.

 

[Next Chapter](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/51085.html)


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross Winchester knows three things to be true: his father, John, is a hero; he’s going to be the best hunter in the goddamn world; and his two older brothers are in love with each other. An AU-version of seasons one and two where the Winchester Brothers mean Dean and Sam and Ross, where John is still missing, where Mary and Jess are still dead, and where Dean and Sam are still obsessed with each other.

Ass-fucking is overrated, Ross decides, and it’s painful, like, _really_ painful.

In fact, he has no freaking idea just why Sam and Dean are so obsessed by it. It’s seriously bugging him that he seems to be missing something. And he’s not just talking about the pain (he’s a hunter for fuck’s sake, he _knows_ pain), though he has to admit that this pain, the pain of having a cock rammed up your much smaller and narrower asshole... Jesus Christ, that kinda pain is something else.

Of course, he’s not some ignorant slut just looking to get his kink on with some freaky ass-play. He knows what he’s talking about, he’s had a front row seat for this kinda crap for the past fuck knows how many years, thanks to his two older brothers. And to be fair to Dean and Sam, they did warn him about the pain: Sam with his eyes wide and solemn, asking again and again, “Are you sure? You don’t have to do this to prove anything to us, Ross. Are you sure? ‘Cause you know, man, it hurts the first time. It hurts a lot.” While Dean looked on warily, sitting back and shaking his head and saying, “You wanna be fucked in the ass, littlest bro, then you gotta ask Sammy. That’s a line I just can’t cross with you.”

And maybe that hurt a little – hearing Dean come out and say that to him, just another way that he came second best to Sam for Dean – but mostly, in a weird way, it was a relief. Having Dean pop his ass-cherry would just be, well – it would be _weird_ , and even more fucked-up than normal. Maybe the line was there because Dean was the one who showed him how to lace up his sneakers with the two bunny ears, because Dean was the one who gave him his lunch money every day (where he got it from, Ross had never bothered to ask, knowing Dean he probably stole it), because Dean was the one who took the hems up and down on the hand-me-down pants he always got stuck with (being the youngest meant he never ever got anything fucking new _and_ he had to put up with Dean's shitty sewing), because Dean was the one who wiped away the snot when he had a cold and wiped away the tears when he was upset (not that that happened very often, he was no pussy). Admittedly, he'd been dealing pretty fucking well with the fact that Dean was the guy who’d done all that kinda parental shit for him and Dean was also the guy he liked to make out with on a regular basis, all things considered and all that. But still, damn him, Dean was right, there _was_ a line.

So, in the end, Sam was the one who took his ass virginity. Which was pretty fucked-up too in so many ways. After all, Sammy was his big brother just as much as Dean. But Sam was also… God, this was going to make him sound, like, the vainest person ever, but there was something about the way Sam looked at him, and something about the way that Sam looked _like_ him. Ross already knew that the whole resemblance thing with Sam was a major freaking turn-on for both of them, but Sam was – man, he hated admitting this – but Sam had some really fucking impressive moves on him, way more impressive than Ross would ever have expected. It was no wonder Dean had pined so freaking much when Sammy was off doing the college thing.

So yeah, Sam ended up being his ass-cherry popper. Maybe with hindsight and everything they should’ve thought it all through better, but they were guys, Winchesters, and act-first-think-later had been Dean’s way of dealing with shit for years. Ross had always been impatient and there was a part of him that just wanted to get it over with, just tick that box and say, yeah, so I crossed incestuous butt-sex off the bucket list. Plus, Sam was all flashing-eyed and red-cheeked and giving Ross this heated sort of look that was kinda intimidating if it’d been anyone else except his dorky lame-ass brother, but it was flattering just how into the idea Sam seemed to be, so it never even occurred to Ross that Sam was a really big boy while his ass was virginal and that the entire process was a little like learning to shoot at seven years old with Dad’s huge fucking Colt instead of a kiddy-sized pop gun.

He sweated and shook and trembled as Sam tried to breach him, Dean holding onto him the entire time, whispering in his ear, “Just relax, Ross, just let it go, littlest bro. It’s okay, I’m here, I got you. We’re not gonna hurt you. It’ll be okay, just relax...” until Ross snapped and yelled out: _“Fuck’s sake, Dean, I am fuckin’ relaxing!”_

‘Cause it hurt, Jesus to Christ it hurt. Like someone shoving a really thick, really hot needle into him, a needle that was as thick as a freaking sawed-off. It didn’t seem to matter that Sam had supposedly “opened him up” with half a tub of lube because the lube was obviously defective and Sam was doing it totally wrong because _it really fucking hurt_. And the thing was, it wasn’t just about the agonizing pain because he could deal with pain, he was a hunter for Christ’s sake, it was just – God – it was more than that. It was the mental image of Sam’s cock going inside him, of what he must look like with his ass in the air and with himself all opened up like that, of the fucking intrusion. This was the part that was supposed to be hot; the part that Sam and Dean couldn’t get enough of, except it wasn’t hot. Not at all. It was gross and painful and degrading and he had seriously had _enough._

“Stop! Okay, just stop!”

Sam froze and shared a look with Dean over Ross’s head. Ross gritted his teeth and grabbed hold of Dean’s forearm, hard enough for Dean to actually flinch while he flailed around with his other arm, trying to push Sam away from him. “Get off me, Sam! I ain’t doin’ this! I wanna stop!”

Sam pulled out of him, looking anxious and sheepish which normally would’ve made Ross feel a little guilty, but by that point his ass was throbbing way too much to give a shit about Sam’s feelings. He collapsed onto the bed and shook and sweated and panted some more, while his poor ass throbbed in time with the blood thumping in his head and Dean and Sam peppered him with stupid, worried questions. He ignored them both, gritted his teeth, slid bonelessly off the bed and practically crawled to the bathroom on his hands and knees.

His ass hurt for the following three days. Sam and Dean watched him with anxious, guilty expressions, exchanging these glances that were half-parts worry and half-parts unfulfilled sexual tension, ‘cause of course, his god-fucking-terrible ass-fucking experience meant that they were way too guilt-ridden to seek solace with each other. Not that he was gonna let them off the hook any time soon.

He felt cheated. Angry and resentful and pissed-off and fucking cheated. It wasn’t supposed to be like that. All those times he’d been forced to listen or watch Sam and Dean going at it, it was _nothing_ like that for them. Sam and Dean loved fucking each other. They couldn’t get enough of it. Hell, they didn’t even care which way round they did it as long as they were joined by the cock.

He'd known it would suck the first time, but he thought it would be like smoking. Your first cigarette always sucks, it tastes like crap, but you get past it, you get over the choking and spluttering and horrible burning feel of the smoke down your throat, until it’s fucking awesome. He thought butt-sex would be like that, like you have to get past the pain and weirdness and grossness and the whole part where it fucking hurts like a bitch, until it’s easy and painless and as awesome as the first after-breakfast cigarette. Except he was never gonna know because there was no damn way he was ever trying it again.

 

**

 

“Lots of gay men never have anal sex,” Sam says about a week later, like, totally out of the fucking blue. Except it’s not out of the blue ‘cause Sam’s obviously been dwelling on Ross’s ass-related shortcomings all this time. They’re in a bar, Ross and Sam sitting a table, drinking, while Dean struts his stuff at the pool table. The thing is, Ross knows that Sam’s trying to be nice, but he’s just – he’s just so fucking sucky at it.

“I’m not gay!” he insists.

Sam looks like he’s about to roll his eyes, though he manages to restrain himself. “You know, you can like both. They even have a word for it.”

“Whatever. Just – I ain’t gay, dude. You should fuckin’ know that. I’m not like you.”

“I still like girls,” Sam says and Ross makes a little scoffing sound ‘cause seriously – when was the last time Sam ever got his mopey ass laid by a chick? He’s been pretty much Dean-Dean-Dean-Dean ever since they dragged him out of that burning building in Palo Alto. “All I’m saying is that anal sex is not for everybody. Even gay dudes who have been together a long time. It’s not as prevalent as some people think.”

“You and Dean seem to like it enough,” he snorts.

Sam’s mouth twitches up into a little smirk and he shrugs, trying to disguise the fact that he’s not acting totally smug. “Yeah. I guess we do,” he says. His eyes drift towards the pool table, like he can’t help himself, like as soon as anyone mentions Dean he’s gotta be immediately staring at him like the obsessive man-stalker he is.

Dean’s picked up some fans from somewhere, just a couple of girls leaning over the table, watching him play, eyes wide, teeth shiny and arms pressed against their sides in that way that makes their tits look more prominent. Whatever, it’s a look Ross can appreciate even if Dean’s way too into dick these days to really get it. Dean’s acting the part though, flirting like crazy and flashing his teeth, all smug and attention-whorey. The girls laugh and one of them actually claps her hands together, while Dean laps up the attention and leans over the table to take his next shot. His opponent, some dweeby loser, looks seriously pissed, standing off to one side and glaring at Dean from over the rim of his beer bottle, obviously figuring out that he's being totally played. And if looks could kill… oh boy, Deano’d be fucking smoking ash on the floor right now.

Dean’s shot connects and the girls cheer. Dean straightens, does this goofy little bow thing that sends the girls giggling. He strides around the table to take his next shot, looking up for a second and looking their way, his gaze connecting with Sam’s. Dean keeps staring their way as he chalks up the end up of his cue, his mouth curling upwards into a little smirk that’s eerily similar to the one on Sam’s face right now.

Beside Ross, Sam rolls his eyes, mutters, “Show-off,” but he’s smiling too, that possessive, hot glint in his eyes, the same one Sam’s given Ross enough times over the past few weeks, and that’s a memory to make him feel uncomfortable right now. Ross swallows, manages this half-hearted snorting-scoffing noise as he raises his beer bottle to take a pull. Sam’s sprawled across the booth, taking up as much space as he can. His legs are stretched out under the table, thighs loosely spread, one big hand resting on his thigh, close to the seam of his jeans, and Ross can clearly make out the shape of his erection through the denim. Ross presses his lips together, he can practically feel his stupid face heating up, irritation and annoyance with Sam for just being – God – for being so damn blatant about it, staring at Dean like he’s planning on freaking devouring him later.

“I’m just gonna –“ Sam says, not bothering to complete the sentence. He slides out of the booth, saunters across the bar towards Dean. It’s almost funny, the way he’s walking across there, this rolling sort of strut that's partly about arrogance and partly about the fact he’s sporting a ginormous woody in his luckily loose-fitting jeans. Dean’s just finishing up taking another shot as Sam slides in to stand behind him, like, directly behind him. Dean straightens and his ass is right in Sam’s personal space, brushing up against the front of his jeans. Dean jumps, startled, obviously too distracted to notice Sam’s approach, and Sam slides out a steadying hand, wraps it tight around Dean’s forearm from behind.

Sam leans in, whispers something into Dean’s ear, mouth brushing his ear lobe. Dean stills, listening hard, then a smile breaks out across his face. He tilts his head to one side to peer up at Sam; he says something and then slides away out of Sam’s grasp to take another shot. Sam takes a step back from the table and crosses his arms. He watches Dean wipe the table clean, ball after ball sliding home while the dweeby dude glowers from the side and the girls cheer Dean on.

Dean snatches up the crumpled bills lying on the side of the table when he’s done, and brings them to his mouth for a smacking kiss. Ross makes a face ‘cause seriously, so gross, who the fuck knows where that shit has been? Sam slides up behind Dean again, reaching around Dean’s body to take the money from his hand and rifle through it before he pockets the lot. Dean slings an arm around Sam’s neck and drags him forward to meet the girls and then it’s all happy get-to-know you shit, the girls looking greedily between Dean and Sam, Dean still with his arm around Sam and Sam pressed up against Dean in a blatant, ass-grabbing way. The four of them all head off towards the bar, Dean sparing a moment to flash Ross a smirk over his shoulder and pat Sammy on the ass.

Ross rolls his eyes and takes another swig of his beer. He works his way steadily through another couple of beers as he watches the action. All four of them are acting like they’re having the time of their life, the girls leaning into Dean and Sam and all of them knocking back shots and getting annoying and loud and giggly.

_I killed Dad for them._

The thought slams into him, savage and sudden, and he freezes with his beer against his lips, pulse beating hot and heavy in his head.

_I killed Dad for them._

Oh God, he hasn’t – hasn’t thought about – about that night – about what happened that night. Dean on the floor, unconscious, not moving. Dad’s hands around Sam’s throat.

_It was for them. I shot him for them. To save them._

The bottle slips in his grasp, chilly damp glass sliding against his fingers. He grabs for it, manages to set it tremblingly on the table. He stares down at his hand, the damp, pink pads of his fingers. It’s shaking. He’s shaking, goose flesh popping on his arms and neck.

_But Dean said – he said that I did the right thing. I did what Dad wanted. I killed the demon. Me. I did what he could never do, and Dad would be proud of me._

But he hadn’t been thinking about the demon. He hadn’t been thinking about anything except Dean and Sam and saving Dean and Sam and so he’d used the Colt and he’d killed Dad. He’d chosen his brothers over his dad.

He takes a breath, lifts his head. His vision is bleary, heart thumping. He feels dizzy. He feels like he’s gonna throw up. He’s still shaking.

He stumbles out the booth, grabs onto the back to steady himself, fingers punching into the soft plastic. He pushes himself forward, propels himself out the bar and out into the parking lot, legs working independent of his brain. The parking lot is full, cars washed with moonlight and street-light. He makes for the Impala, leans against it, palms on the cold metal. It’s damp, dewy, cold. He hangs his head, breathes in and out, tries to force his heart to stop thumping.

He needs to get a grip. He needs to get a fucking grip, right now. He’s acting ridiculous and pathetic and he’s supposed to be a hunter, not some little bitch who just breaks down sobbing and shaking all the damn time. It’s not surprising that Dean keeps putting off going on an actual hunt when he’s in this crappy shape.

He fumbles his phone out of his pocket, his few contacts scroll past too quickly, stupid tiny buttons under his clumsy fingers. He swears under his breath, tries to calm himself and then tries again. He gets Sarah’s name on the third pass. He hits the send button and lifts the phone to his ear as it rings.

He doesn’t expect her to pick up, she hasn’t done the last few times he’s tried to call, so he’s a little blindsided when she answers on the third ring. “Ross?”

“Uh, Sarah? That you?”

“It’s my phone, of course it’s me.” She sounds amused, a fond sort of tone to her voice that makes the smile flicker then scroll across his face. The last time they had actually managed to talk it’d been stilted and awkward – probably his own fault. He’d felt weird talking to her, making out like everything was normal and fine and peachy between them when everything with Dean and Sam was – well, what it was.

“Oh, how are you?” he says.

“I’m good, baby. Listen, I’m glad you called, I was about to call you, I've got a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” he echoes.

“Uh-huh, a surprise. Where are you? Are you guys still in Texas?”

“Yeah. That’s right. Why?”

“Anywhere near Dallas?”

“Just outside of Austin. So, yeah, that’s real close.”

“Awesome,” she says. “You want to meet me in Dallas? I’m flying in tomorrow first thing for a meeting. I have a room booked at the Hilton. I was thinking we could take a couple of days, just hang out? That sound okay to you?”

“Yeah, yeah. I mean, yeah, definitely. It sounds, like, really good. I wanna see you. It feels like it’s been years.” He’s grinning full-on now, her words finally sinking in, and he doesn’t care, doesn’t give a crap how desperate or needy he must sound. He can see Sarah again. Tomorrow. Get away from Sam and Dean and just – all this – just for a couple of days and – Christ – it all sounds so good: holed up in a fancy hotel with Sarah and room service and a massive bed.

“Great,” she says. “Listen, so you go talk to Sam and Dean and figure out how you’re going to get here, okay?”

“Oh that should be fine,” he says with a shrug. “If Dean doesn’t wanna give me a ride then I’ll just steal a car.”

“Ross, come on, be serious.” She huffs out a breath, half-laughing, half-incredulous.

“I am being serious! Totally serious.”

“You’re going to steal a car?” she repeats.

“Sure I am. Done it loads of times before. It’s no big deal.”

She sighs heavily, the sort of a sigh that reminds him of Dean doing his super-patient-and-matyred-big-brother thing. “Ross, c’mon. I don’t want you to steal a car. If you do that, I’ll spend all of tomorrow worrying about you being arrested.”

“I won’t be arrested. I know what to do, I’ve done it –“

“- loads of times before. Yes, I know, you said so. Just – not this time, okay? Promise you won’t. Can’t you catch a bus if Dean won’t let you borrow the car?”

“Dean ain’t gonna let me borrow the car, he’s totally possessive about it. He’s got, like, this complex about it. He never even lets me drive it when it’s just us and he’s about to drop dead. He says I can’t drive for shit, which is total bullshit. But, hey, don’t worry, babe, I’ll just sweet-talk him into giving me a ride. We ain’t working any jobs right now, so he and Sammy’ve got nothing better to do. ‘Cept each other of course, and that shit can wait.”

“Right,” she says, her tone a little dry this time. “Well, whatever you work out – just let me know, okay?”

“Sure thing, babe.”

She pauses and he hears her lick her lips, a rustling whooshing sound like running water. He tries to picture the apartment, everything soft and nice and clean and comforting. He thinks of her standing at the kitchen sink, its gleaming clean basin and taps, the phone tucked between her neck and shoulder, her hair coming loose from the soft ponytail she always wears when she’s hanging out at home.

“I should go,” she says and he’s relieved to hear that she sounds reluctant and not like she’s actually wanting to get off the line. He’s gotten that impression before, though that could just be him acting all paranoid, it’s hard to tell sometimes. “I have to pack and make this call to the buyer and the bank to make sure everything’s okay,” she adds with a sigh. “But we’ll see each other tomorrow, okay, honey?”

“Yeah, okay, sure we will, not gonna miss that.”

She huffs out a soft, amused breath. “Great. Call me when you’ve figured things out.”

“Yeah, okay,” he says, but she’s already rung off.

He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, surprised to feel that he’s still smiling. He locks his phone screen and slides it back in his pocket and heads into the bar to break the good news.

 

**

Dean only puts up a token protest about driving to Dallas for what he insists on calling Ross’s “fancy-ass booty call”. Sam just listens to Ross’s explanation and shrugs, saying, “I think that sounds good. You guys need to figure out what you want together.”

“What do you mean: _what we want together_?” Ross asks.

Sam blinks at him like he’s acting like a total dumbass and not getting something really freaking obvious. “Well you know. Your relationship, dude. You gotta figure out where things stand between you. If you want to carry on being girlfriend and boyfriend or whatever, or if you want to go your separate ways. It’s not fair to keep things up in the air like this. For either of you.”

Dean groans and looks up from the laptop. “Jesus, Sam, give the kid a break.”

“What? Am I the only one actually confronting the issue here?”

Ross looks between his brothers, feeling his pulse start to spark up. There’s something here he’s totally not getting. He's just looking forward to spending a couple of days with his girl, hanging out and having a lot of sex and eating a lot of fancy room service and now he’s supposed to be sitting down with her and talking about their relationship? Shit.

“What issue?” Dean says.

Sam sighs and shakes his head. He looks at Ross, he actually looks kind of sympathetic, his understanding face, the one Ross has seen him use on loads of grieving relatives in the past.

“Why can’t we just have fun?” Ross says, and his voice sounds kinda pathetic and plaintive in his ears. “I mean – I was just gonna go and see her and hang out and just –“

“Have lots of sex,” Dean adds matter-of-factly.

“Well duh. I mean, I don’t, like, wanna waste time having deep and meaningful conversations,” he adds.

Sam shrugs. “Okay. Okay, fine, whatever. If that works for you then cool.”

He swallows, nods his head, but Sam's not meeting his eyes, still looking concerned, and seriously, what is with him? Why the hell is Sam acting like he’s the freaking Relationship Yoda all of a sudden? Okay, so Sam’s the only one who’s actually managed to have anything resembling a normal relationship with a non-relative that’s lasted more than a month, but still, Sam is not the fucking expert. Besides, there's no damn way he's taking relationship advice from someone whose last and only girlfriend ended up crispy fried by a demon and who’s been in crazy incestuous love with his older brother most of his life.

He swallows, pushes back the sudden memory of Jess; nice, blond, sweet Jessica who’d welcomed him and Dean so warmly that one time so long ago, Jess who'd been so smart and friendly and hot, who’d baked brownies especially for them and spoken about Sam like he was this dude Ross had never met before. She hadn’t deserved what happened to her, no way, but getting involved with Sam – with them – had signed her death warrant. Not that he and Sarah are anything like Sam and Jess. For a start, Sarah knows all about what he does, she knows about demons and ghosts and creepy-ass paintings, she’s _seen_ it with her own eyes. She's got protections in her apartment, he’d seen to that. She's smart and capable and tough and he’s told her loads of stuff, he's not keeping her in the dark like Sammy did with his girl. It's not the same at all.

He licks his lips, turns his attention back to his phone where he’s been typing out a long message to Sarah for the past five minutes, letting her know that Dean’s agreed to give him a ride to Dallas. He can feel both his brothers looking at him, Dean with that penetrating, older-brother concerned look, the one that’s so fucking difficult to ignore.

“Hey, maybe we should go with him?” Dean says.

Ross looks up from his phone, watches Dean shut the laptop and slide off the bed, cross the room to the coffee machine. “What do you mean?” he asks suspiciously.

Dean takes his sweet time filling his mug, his back to them. He turns around, parks his ass against the crappy counter and shrugs. “Like, we could get a room in the hotel too? Would be nice stayin’ somewhere fancy for once.” He waves his arm at the crumbling plaster, peeling paint and weird twisted patches of damp on the walls around them. “’Stead of a shit-hole like this. Whatcha think, Sammy?”

“I think there’s no freakin’ way you two are staying in my hotel!” Ross interrupts. “Like, just no way, man.”

“ _Your_ hotel?” Dean parrots, cocking up one eyebrow. “Since when is it _your_ hotel?”

“Whatever. You know what I mean. I don’t want you sniffing round there. It’ll be weird.”

He’s itching to spell it out: it’s not just about seeing Sarah again, it’s also about getting away from the two of them, about just – just having some freaking space. He loves his brothers. He loves them a lot, in lots of different ways, haha, but God – he just – he wants some goddamn time away from them. Christ, is that too much to ask?

He can feel Sam’s eyes on him, watching him thoughtfully. God, it's always like this these days. Always one of them (or both of them) watching him with these same damn looks of brotherly concern. He can practically imagine what’s going through their minds: _Is Ross okay? Is Littlest Bro okay? Is he gonna start crying again? Is he gonna finally have that fucking breakdown he’s been promising ever since – ever since –_

And that’s another reason why it’ll just be so goddamn _nice_ to get away from here. From this. From them.

_I killed Dad for them._

He forces away the thought, the fucking refrain that’s been hammering around his brain since the previous night. He tangles his hands in the comforter, watches Dean sip his coffee and trade significant looks with Sam over the rim of his mug.

“I’m sure we can find another hotel close by,” Sam says, using his ultra-reasonable tone of voice. “Would that be okay for you, Ross?”

Ross makes a face and Sam grins back at him. He guesses that everything’s been decided.

 

**

 

 _ROOM 302. SEE YOU SOON. XO_ the text reads. Ross grins and tucks his phone away into his pocket.

“That’s the look of a guy who’s about to get laid,” Dean comments, eyes on the driving mirror as he reverse parks into the busy street outside the hotel.

“Yeah, well, you would know,” Ross says.

Dean grins unashamedly and elbows Ross in the ribs. “I would _definitely_ know. But this ain’t about me, littlest bro, this is about you. Now, are you packing?”

Ross rolls his eyes at his brother and raises his knee. He rolls up the hem of his jeans to expose the knife and knife holster strapped to his ankle. He unzips his jacket and holds the left side open so Dean can see his Taurus tucked into the inner pocket.

“And?” Dean prompts.

“ _And_ ,” he mimics, making a face and doing a dead-on accurate impression of Dean at his most annoying and bossy – which is most of the time.

Dean just raises an eyebrow. Ross groans at him and digs around in the backpack lying between his feet. He tugs out a handful of condoms and waves them in Dean’s face. “Happy now?”

“Eight?” Dean says, his face creasing into amused lines. “Seriously? Eight? Kinda ambitious, don’t you think?”

He shrugs, gives Dean a smug look. “Nope. Not at all. Don’t judge me by your standards, Deano.”

Dean smirks and leans in, gaze dropping to Ross’s crotch area and slowly, aggravatingly, lingeringly, sliding upwards to his face. He raises his hand to cup Ross’s cheek, forcibly turning his head so their eyes meet. Ross swallows, feeling his blood rush south and his tongue come out to wet his lips despite himself. Dean is looking at him with that dark, knowing gaze, the same look he’s given Sam so many times over the years, the same look he’s been giving him over the past couple of months. He feels his stomach flip over and his lips shape Dean’s name. “Dean… what?”

Dean leans in, brings their mouths together. The kiss is hard and quick, Dean’s fingers digging into the back of his skull, and then Dean is pulling away, the heated look falling from his eyes and that familiar brotherly look sliding back over his face in its place. He pats Ross’s cheek a couple of times, gives him an affectionate smile. “Don’t keep her waiting,” he says.

Ross hesitates, swallows, his whole body feels hot and flushed and his dick is half-hard in his jeans. He feels blindsided and he wants to curse out his brother for doing that to him right before he’s about to meet Sarah for the first time in three months, for making him feel like that, like he’s been turned-over and then thrown away. He fumbles with the door handle, suddenly desperate to be out the car and away from Dean. He spills out onto the sidewalk, stumbles a little as he crams the condoms back into the bag and zips it up. He swallows hard again, shoulders the backpack and heads into the hotel. He doesn’t look back.

He takes the elevator up to the third floor feeling jittery and a little nervous, though his stupid dick has finally deflated, thank God. He flexes his fingers, alters his grip on the backpack slung over one shoulder. There’s an older couple in the elevator, talking together in some language he doesn’t recognize and watching him warily from the corner of their eyes. He ignores them and practically leaps out the elevator when it arrives at his floor. Sarah’s room is at one end of the corridor, about as far away from an exit as it’s possible to be – which wouldn’t be his choice, but he’s not the one choosing this time. He notes the location of the fire escape and tracks up and down the corridor a couple of times to check on any other escape routes.

He knocks on the door to 302 and barely has to wait three seconds before Sarah opens it. She breaks into a smile as soon as she sees him and cranes up on tiptoes, her hand stretching out to cup the back of his neck. He lets her pull him in, smiling goofily, huffing out a breath when their lips meet. He drops his hands to her waist, edges her forward, the backpack sliding down his arm and catching on his elbow, banging against both their hips.

She pulls back, laughs a little, licks her lips. “You should come inside,” she says, taking a shuffling step backwards.

The door thuds closed behind him and he drops the backpack to the floor, barely pausing before he surges forward, curling his arms around her once more and pulling her in. They fumble-kiss their way across the room to the enormous double bed until they’re falling backwards with a winded ouff of breath, the soft pillowy mattress and comforter clinging around them. She laughs into his mouth and threads her fingers into his hair. Her legs curl around his hips and she arches up into him. He’s getting hard again – he _is_ hard again – and he hears her groan when he grinds his erection down into her. One of her hands snakes in between their bodies and he feels her (surprisingly small) fingers fumbling with his fly.

“Want you inside me, want you to fuck me,” she whispers into his ear, and he groans out his appreciation and agreement, pushing back to put some space between their bodies so she can unzip his fly completely.

She forces his jeans down over his hips and ass, her fingers brushing against his exposed hipbones and treasure trail. “God, you – your body, the way you look, Ross,” she whispers and he feels his face flush hot at the appreciation and admiration in her voice. He knows he’s a hot piece of ass, he _knows_ that, but hearing someone like Sarah say it, someone who’s so smart and beautiful is just - he doesn’t know the words to describe it, but he knows that he likes it a lot.

“Ain’t so bad yourself,” he mutters into her neck.

She tilts her head back and laughs breathily, her eyes hot and dark as they meet his, her cheeks pink, her hair a little damp around the temples. “Undress me,” she tells him.

They don’t manage to get completely undressed the first time and they probably look totally ridiculous. He’s still wearing his socks for one thing and fucking with socks on always makes you look like a dork. She’s got her pantyhose caught around one ankle and her bra’s still on for fuck’s sake – which is epic fail on his part, but whatever, she feels _amazing_. He’s just impressed that he managed to stop for long enough to get the condom on.

And yeah, by the way, Deano, one condom down, seven to go. He’s easily gonna use all eight over two days.

The second time they do manage to get naked. It’s a bit slower and he lasts longer and he takes his time to make sure she really appreciates it, going down on her and giving her some of his best moves. God, he loves pussy, he loves the taste and smell and feel and everything about it. He can’t understand how Sam and Dean can be so blasé about giving it up, and okay so they’ve got that fucked-up crazy about each other shit working for them, but the thought of never being able to go down on a chick again or fondle a great pair of tits or just – just be inside a girl again – he doesn’t think he could do that no matter how much he liked the guy. Plus there’s the whole part where he’s never ever gonna try any kind of butt-sex ever again; even if he gets to top the next time, he’s just not doing that.

The third time she sucks him off in the shower. She’s not as good as Sam or Dean, but it’s still incredible and it’s – it’s Sarah, it's his girl. He puts his hand on the side of her face to stop her half-way through and she slides off him, tilts her head back and blinks up at him, water running down her cheeks, flattening her hair to her scalp, making her eyelashes shine.

“Hey, come up here,” he says.

She smiles and gets to her feet. He pulls her in, the head of his cock brushing against her belly, as they kiss. They end up fucking on the bathroom floor, it’s impossible in the shower, too slippery and too small and he has to bend his knees to get inside her properly and that’s just uncomfortable. Instead, he sits on the edge of the tub and she sinks down onto him, riding him, both of them wet and sweaty and giggling.

Afterwards he picks her up, carries her back into the bedroom and throws her down onto the bed. She snuggles up into him and they take a well-deserved nap. He falls asleep, wondering vaguely just how she isn’t sore yet when his dick is already feeling seriously chafed.

 

**

“Where’d you get that?” Sarah asks.

They’re awake and they’ve eaten room service and he’s not quite sure what time it is, only that it’s late. His phone is blinking at him from the nightstand, showing that he has messages, but he’s ignoring it. They’ll be from Sam or Dean and he’s not thinking about his brothers right now.

Sarah’s tucked up close to him, naked, her hair a half-dried, crazy tangle that reminds him disconcertingly of Sam, except he’s not thinking about Sam right now.

“What?” he says.

“This.” Her nail scrapes gently over a mark on his shoulder. He glances down at it, just noticing it from the corner of his eye, and – shit – that’s a hickey. It’s definitely a hickey.

“Looks like a hickey to me,” she says. “One that I didn’t give you.”

“Nah, just a hunt,” he says, quietly impressed with how convincing he sounds.

“A hunt? How did a hunt give you a hickey?”

“A vamp. Tried to take a bite outta me. Almost succeeded but Dean got it. Chopped the bitch’s head off.”

The corner of her mouth twitches, she looks amused. “You’re such a bad liar, Ross.”

“I – what? No, seriously, babe, it’s true.”

“No it’s not. Tell me who it was. Was it Sam or was it Dean?”

He freezes, blood draining from his face. He blinks, pulls his head back, turning so he can look her directly in the eyes. She looks amused, her mouth curled into a cruel, mocking shape. “Which of your big brothers gave you that hickey, Ross?”

_Your big brothers… but she doesn’t know that Dean is his –_

He swallows, whispers, “Christo.”

She flinches, her eyes flash black. He jerks back, stumbles off the bed, crying, “Christo, Christo, _Christo_!”

Her mouth twists into a snarl, teeth barred. She surges off the bed, belts him across the face with a resounding, stinging slap that vibrates through his skull.

“Shut that pretty face or I’ll cut out your tongue!”

“No, no, no…” He shakes his head, holds his hand to his burning cheek. “No – get out of her! Get out of her, you fuckin’ bitch!”

She launches at him, sends him sprawling to the floor. His head crashes back against the carpet, his vision swims. She pushes him down, straddles his thighs. She wraps her fingers, around his throat, forces back his head, fingers twisting into the bones of his jaw.

“Shut up!” she hisses.

Her eyes are still black, and he can see it now, can see the demon in her, can see that evil piece of crap inside her – inside his girl, inside his girl that he’s been – oh God – how long? How long? Has it been here this whole time? While they were -

He wriggles, tries to buck her off, hips lifting, but she’s too strong, way too fucking strong, fingers grinding into his skin. _Dean, Sam, God – where are you? Dean? Sammy? Please. Dad?_

Her mouth twists up into a snarling smile, she cackles in amusement. “No point screaming now. You’re on your own, pretty boy. All alone, just how I want you. Now, open up. That’s right.” She leans in closer, pinches his nose closed, her voice cloying and sickly-sweet as she coos: “Open up for me, Ross. Bend over and open up for me, just like you do for the rest of your family. Open up for Daddy.”

He’s shaking, tears springing to his eyes, an instinctive reaction to the breath choking from his throat, his blocked nose, and God – he’s gotta – he’s gotta breathe – but he can’t ‘cause if he does -

Oh God. She throws back her head, black cloud rushing up in a malevolent stream and oh God – oh no – he has to, shit – fuck – God help him. He opens his mouth, gasps for breath. The cloud plows down, knocks into him, driving into him with a force that chokes and burns and scalds and then everything goes dark.

 

***

 

He comes back to life in a car.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

The voice is his own, his accent, his stupid mocking voice, except that’s not him, not him that’s talking ‘cause he’s… He tries to move, tries to see. A blink of a road, a car’s interior, reflection of headlights in the windshield, darkness outside.

“Yeah, that’s right, we’re on the move.”

His mouth won’t work, he can’t talk, but he can think. He thinks the question: _Where are we going?_

“Like I’m going to tell you. You’re the passenger here, sweet-cheeks. Just sit back and get snug, because you’re going nowhere.”

The realization knocks into him: he’s possessed. He’s fucking possessed. That’s the demon. The demon who was in Sarah. Oh God, Sarah.

_What did you do with Sarah?_

The voice chuckles, slithering and amused. “Don’t you worry about your sweet girlfriend, baby. She’s going to be just fine. Of course she won’t want anything to do with your fucked-up ass anymore. Not after what I told her.”

_What did you tell her?_

“Oh, just the truth,” the demon says breezily. “What you and your big brothers have been up to these past few weeks. And yes – I told her about Dean. About him being your brother too. Trust me, honey, you just became the brand new resident of Dumpsville.”

_You sonofabitch…_

“Oh c’mon, littlest bro, the girl deserved the truth! And if you weren’t gonna be straight with her…” The demon guffaws. “Straight with her – yeah, right, that’s a good one.”

_You ain’t funny._

“Oh, I’m positively hilarious, darling.” The demon pauses and Ross can feel it – hear it – licking its lips – can see the ghost of a reflection in the rearview mirror, his own mouth twisted up into a delighted grimace. “You know, you and your brothers have got to be about the stupidest sonsofbitches I’ve ever come across, and believe me, I’ve come across a few. All these years pretending to be big strong hunters and you never once thought about protecting your tasty hides against possession. Even after dear old daddy got his slow, worthless ass possessed. But no, you’re just too busy fingering each other’s sweet spots to think about getting yourselves real protection. Not that I’m complaining, sweetheart, makes my job _much_ easier.” It laughs, a stupid, snickering, sneering sound that he can’t believe is his own voice.

_Dean and Sam will know I’m gone. They’ll come after you._

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” the demon says confidently. “You think this is just about you, Ross? It’s never been just about you. You know you’re not the important one in this family. You never have been. Tch, tch, little brother. No, in about four or five hours from now, Dean and Sam will be discovering a nice little surprise in your hotel room –“

_Oh God, Sarah -_

“No, don’t worry, honey-buns, your soon to be ex-girlfriend is not dead. Not yet at least. That would be far too boring. Besides, I need her. She needs to tell Dean and Sam just exactly where we’re headed.”

_Where are we headed, you fucking sonofabitch?_

The demon chuckles again. “I told you before, that’s something you’re just going to have to wait and find out. All in good time, hot-stuff, all in good time. Now, how about you keep your pretty little cakehole shut for the next few hours and let daddy do the driving, okay?”

He’s about to protest again before he feels the darkness start to swamp him, pushing him underground – down and down – and he’s sinking, sinking, until everything goes dark again.

 

On to the... [Next Chapter](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/56882.html)


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross Winchester knows three things to be true: his father, John, is a hero; he’s going to be the best hunter in the goddamn world; and his two older brothers are in love with each other. An AU-version of seasons one and two where the Winchester Brothers mean Dean and Sam and Ross, where John is still missing, where Mary and Jess are still dead, and where Dean and Sam are still obsessed with each other.

“What do you think, honey-buns, Ridden Hard at the grill or Put Away Wet over there?”

_I think you should shut the hell up._

“Aww,” mocks the demon. It picks up a spoon and twirls it between two fingers. Ross watches his own face appear in the back of the spoon, distorted and maniacal, a fun-house version of his reflection. The demon runs his tongue over his teeth, smacks his lips a couple of times. “C’mon, baby, you can do better than that. Personally, I’m leaning more toward Put Away Wet. Fat chicks are always so grateful.” It chuckles, drops the spoon back onto the table with a clatter. “Let’s go put this pretty packaging to work.”

_What are you going to do to her?_

“Don’t think I need a wingman for this one,” the demon says dismissively, and then that pressure is back, the enfolding encroaching darkness of the demon’s essence, dripping and pouring over him, and everything goes black once more.

He comes to in the men’s room. He – it – the demon’s leaning back against a damp cold wall, the waitress on her knees in front of him. Her head is tilted back at a painful angle, eyes wide and terrified, her mouth stuffed full of Ross’s cock. She’s spluttering and gasping, tears rolling down her chubby cheeks as he – no, not him, the demon, the fucking demon – brutally fucks her mouth.

“See what I told you,” the demon says, grasping a handful of her dyed blond hair and yanking her forwards on Ross’s cock. “Fat chicks, always so damn grateful. Ain’t ya, darlin’? That’s right, take it. Take his cock, you ugly bitch.”

The waitress splutters, tries to cough, moans and whimpers around her stuffed full mouth.

_Stop it! You’re hurting her!_

“Quit pretending this doesn’t turn you on. I know what you’ve been doing with your brothers, Ross. I can see right into your head.”

It’s not losing a beat, still thrusting, yanking her head forward, choking her, her tears splashing onto the dirty tiles. Ross thinks suddenly of Sam – of Sam on his knees for him, taking his cock – of Dean watching, a smirk on his face as he runs his mouth. “He’s good, ain’t he? So fuckin’ good at taking it. Such a slut for his brothers’ cocks, ain’t ya, Sammy?” Dean’s voice soft and tender as he steps in close and runs a hand tenderly through Sam’s hair, petting and stroking it back from his face. Sam murmurs something and the reverberation makes Ross shiver and his eyes flutter closed. He reaches for Dean, grasping hold of his shoulder as he pumps his release into Sammy’s mouth.

The demon chuckles. “Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about, Rossy-boy. Still, this bitch will do in a pinch.” It slides Ross’s cock out of her mouth, hand still fisted in her limp blond hair. It jerks her head back, jacks his cock a couple of times before he sprays her face, coating her wet reddened eyes and snotty nose. It takes a step back when it’s over, pulls Ross’s hand out of her hair and wipes it on his jeans in disgust.

“Clean yourself up, sweetheart, you look like shit,” it says.

She’s curled up on the floor, sobbing pitifully, her face pressed down into the dirty tile. There are red marks and bruises around her throat and wrists. The skirt of her diner uniform has ridden up her thighs, exposing wrinkled torn pantyhose and chubby thighs. Ross swallows, feeling a wave of nausea hit him. The demon chuckles again, goes to the sink to wash his hands and clean off his cock. Ross stares into the mirror and watches the demon staring back at him, eyes glinting with amusement. It zips up Ross’s fly, rolls its shoulders, smacks its lips.

“Things to do, places to be,” it says cheerfully. It turns up the collar on his jacket and heads out of there.

_Where are we going?_

“Huh, so it’s we now?” the demon says. They’re back in the car. It’s a LeBaron, 90’s model, he thinks. Dean would know.

_You – I mean where are you taking me?_

The demon glances into the driver’s mirror. It’s looking amused, _gloating_ , like it’s scored some big fucking point. “It was pretty impressive, way you came round before. Most humans, you ride them, they stay quiet, buried deep. Just the occasional: oh please stop, why are you doing that, stop hurting me, stop, please, please, stop.” It breaks off, snorts a laugh. “Not you. Nah, you’re something else. You got stamina, just like your mom.”

_What the fuck are you talking about?_

“Oops.” The demon brings a hand to its mouth in mock horror. It smirks into the rearview, looking unbearably smug. “Let’s pretend I didn’t say that.”

It goes quiet again, leans down to fiddle with the radio, rolling its eyes as it passes through country station after country station. “Fucking Texas, so fucking redneck,” it mutters. The fragment of strings and a guitar and Mick Jagger’s voice hits the air and the demon cries, “Aha!” and scrambles the channel back, singing along, as loud and obnoxious as Dean on a good day. _“You thought you were a clever girl, giving up your social whirl, but you can’t come back and be the first in line. You’re obsolete my baby, my poor unfaithful baby; I said, baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time; I said baby, baby, baby, you’re out of time...”_

“Sweetheart,” the demon says when the song’s over, “you can’t sing for shit.”

Ross doesn’t say – think – anything, but he wonders: like, is that his voice or the demon’s? It’s not him singing, though it’s his voice-box, his lips, his tongue, his lungs making the sounds. And he knows the lyrics, he’s heard that Stones song on one of Dean’s mix-tapes hundreds of freaking times, but he wasn’t the one singing this time.

“Don’t bother. We all know thinking’s not your strong point,” the demon says. It goes quiet again, then suddenly chuckles. “Man, I wish I could see Dean and Sammy’s faces right now.

_Shut up._

The demon laughs again, taps out a drum-beat on the steering wheel. “So... you’ve got no freakin’ clue at all where we’re going? None at all?”

_Where are we going?_

“Oh, let’s just say – we’re going to look up old friends.”

_What old friends?_

The demon is entirely too gleeful, though that seems to be its default setting, gleeful and gloating and smug, like it’s chanting, _I’ve got a secret and you don’t know, nur-nur!_ into Ross’s ear all the fucking time. Of course, by asking it all these dumb-ass questions, he’s giving it exactly what it wants. He needs to shut the hell up.

“Oh you’ll see, hot stuff. Not long now.”

 

**

Sam sighs fretfully and snaps his phone shut. “Still no answer,” he says. He's biting his lip, his nose scrunched up, that crease between his eyebrows. It’s not his best look.

Dean presses pause on the porno playing on the laptop. It’s one of his favourite movies. The main guy reminds him of Sam, he’s tall and ripped and his cock is hella impressive (not as impressive as Sammy’s of course), and he’s got similar dorky hair. “Course he’s not answering. He’s got way better things to do than talk to you.”

“It’s been hours, Dean.”

“And? You want me to spell it out to you?” He cups his hand around his mouth, mock whispers, “ _They’re having sex. Lots and lots of sex._ ” He grins, leers at Sam. “In lots of different positions, if I know my boy.”

“Dean...”

“Jesus, will you relax already? Why don’t you get over here? Jerk me off while I watch your lookalike rimming this twinky dude.”

Sam makes a face. “Oh God, are you still watching that?” But he’s shifting his ass at last, shuffling over to crowd up behind Dean. He presses up against Dean’s back, hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder to peer down at the computer screen.

“He looks nothing like me,” Sam says a trifle snittily, as the Sammy-like raises his head to lick his lips in an obscene way. His lips, chin and mouth are covered in spit, glinting shiny and greasy in the soft-focus light. Actually, Sam does have a point, the dude doesn’t look that much like him at all, he’s no way near as pretty for a start. But he’s also not a total fug like most guys in porn, and he’s got this look in his eyes, this sort of wicked glint as he does more obscene lip-licking, that totally reminds Dean of the look Sam gets in his eyes when he’s about to go down on him.

“Mmmm,” Dean groans and grinds his ass back against his brother, who is, despite the bitching and complaining, getting rock hard in his jeans.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Sam murmurs. He reaches over Dean and slams the laptop shut.

“Hey! I was watching that!”

Sam suffocates any further protests with his mouth on Dean’s, pummelling on Dean’s shirt until he’s flat on his back on the bed.

“Unf, okay, Sammy,” Dean pants as Sam presses him down and crawls all over him.

Twenty minutes and one orgasm apiece later, Sam’s back to fretting about Ross. He’s standing with his shoulder propped up against the bathroom doorjamb, phone in his hands and lips pursed into the constipated concerned look. It’s partly mitigated by the fact he’s also buck naked and flushed from sex, used condom hanging off the end of his deflating cock, but still, time and a place.

“Something isn’t right.”

Dean rolls his eyes and props himself up on one elbow. “Sam.”

“Seriously. Something doesn’t feel right.”

Dean groans. Damn it, Sam’s concern is beginning to worry him now too. After all, it’s not like Sam and Ross share some big freaky psychic connection…

Shit.

“Look,” he starts to say, trying to keep his voice even. One of them at least has to remain calm. “If it’ll make you feel better, then we’ll go pay them a call. They’re not exactly far away, right?”

Sam nods gratefully. He goes back into the bathroom and Dean hears the toilet flush a few seconds later. He sighs and pushes himself off the bed, strolling across the floor to snatch up his boxers from where Sam had thrown them in his crazy lust.

“Hey.” An arm snakes around Dean from behind, Sam’s mouth burying down to press a kiss against the top nub of his spine. “It’s probably nothing, but.”

“You got this feeling,” Dean finishes.

“Yeah.” The word vibrates against Dean’s skin. He pats Sam’s hand where it’s resting against his bare chest. “It’s alright, Sammy. Better safe than sorry.”

They’re staying in the same hotel. The intention was not to let Littlest Bro discover that fact. Knowing him, the little punk would bitch and whine about them smothering him and not trusting him. And maybe… just perhaps he has a point. But, whatever, considering everything that’s gone down over the past few months – Christ – the past few _years_ – Dean’s not taking any chances, and if Sam’s got one of his freaky feelings then he’s going to run with it.

He slides his favourite Colt into the inside pocket of his jacket, gives the room a quick scan to make sure any and every other piece of weaponry is well hidden. They leave the DO NOT DISTURB sign dangling anyway, but unlike most of the dumps they stay in, this is a classy joint. Incognito is definitely the way forward.

Sarah’s room is on the third floor, so they take the stairs. Sam’s looking wary as they approach room 305, and Dean jostles him, waggles his eyebrows. Sam rolls his eyes back at him, and makes one of his patented Sammy pissy faces, but the tense lines around his mouth are still there and he clutches onto Dean’s arm when they reach the door of 305.

“Dude, what?” Dean hisses.

“Just – I got a really bad feeling, Dean. Something’s wrong. Something’s really fucking wrong. I know it.”

Dean feels his heart skip a beat, though he keeps his expression bland as he nods back at Sam. “Okay.” He raps a couple of times on the door, calls out, “Ross! It’s us! Open up!”

There’s no answer. He swallows, exchanges a tense look with Sam. Sam’s got his bottom lip caught between his teeth, one of his hands balled up into a fist. Dean tries again, this time raising his voice: “Ross! Quit fucking around! Open up!” No answer. He looks at Sam. “Maybe they’ve gone out.”

“No.” Sam’s voice is definite. “They haven’t gone out.”

Behind them, Dean hears the sound of a door creak open, someone ask, “Is something going on out here? Is everything okay?”

Dean ignores the dude, but Sam pulls away, goes to get rid of whoever it is. Dean waits for the nosy dude’s door to slam shut once more before he slides out his picks and goes to work on the lock. He shoulders the door open when he feels the lock give, feeling Sam close behind him, practically breathing down his neck.

The room is a mess. Bedcovers are tossed across the floor, the glass coffee table overturned and smashed, one of the desk chairs is broken, its legs and arms lying shattered and splintered. In the middle of the chaos, Sarah lies on the bed, naked except for her panties and bra. Her arms are trussed up above her head, tied to the one of the bedposts with a leather belt, her ankles are cuffed together and she’s been gagged.

“Ross!” he shouts as his eyes rake through the destruction.

Sam pushes past him, falling to the floor beside the bed and getting out his knife to work on Sarah’s restraints. Dean drags his gaze away from them and stalks through the room, into the bathroom. It’s empty. He yanks aside the shower curtain. No Ross.

“Where is he? Where’d he go?” he says, coming back into the room.

Sam has removed Sarah’s gag and cut through the leather belt (one of Dean’s own belts) with his blade. He’s crouched over her, fiddling with his lock picks as he works on the cuffs around her ankles. She’s bent over herself, her arms hugged around her body. Dean can see the tremors running through her, the way she clutches at her knees and cringes away from Sam’s touch. The cuffs finally give and spring open, falling to the bed. There are bruises around her ankles where the metal has chafed and dug into her skin.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay now,” Sam says. He drops to his knees on the floor and peers up at her with big concerned eyes. “Dean, get her a robe,” he says.

Dean goes back to the bathroom and snatches a clean robe off the hook on the back of the door. He tosses it over to Sam and watches Sam help her into it. He’s frustrated by how long this is taking, by how slow and painstaking Sam’s behaving. And sure, he gets it, he does. She’s traumatised; she’s been bound to a fucking bed for fuck knows how long. But Ross is not here, Ross is gone and this doesn’t look good. It really, really doesn’t look good, and he can’t – _Goddamnit_ – he can’t allow something else to happen to his little brother. Ross has been through enough.

“Sarah, can you tell us what happened?” Sam says. His voice is soft, comforting and he’s still kneeling in front of Sarah. “Dean, get her a drink,” he says.

Dean goes to the mini-bar, which is still miraculously stocked. He grabs a couple of the mini-bottles, twisting off the caps and taking a long swig from one of them before passing the other over to Sam. Sam holds it out to Sarah, saying softly, “Drink this, believe me, it will help.”

She gives him an unreadable look before she chugs down the contents, spluttering and coughing when she’s done.

“You need to tell us what happened,” Sam says quietly. “Where is Ross?”

She licks her lips, looks down into Sam’s face. “He left. It took him,” she says.

“What took him?” Dean demands.

Sam throws him an irritated glance and focuses his attention back on Sarah. “It. It _took_ him," she repeats. "It took his body. Took over him, like – like—“

“Possession?” Sam says. “Is he possessed? Did a demon possess him?”

She blinks, a couple of tears seep free and roll down her face. “It took me. I don’t remember – I don’t know – I don’t know how I got here, Sam. I remember I was at work and it was just a normal day, I was going out to get lunch, and then – then I just.” Her voice catches, a choking sob, and more tears flow down her cheeks unheeded. “I don’t know, but something took over me. Like there was this person, this _thing_ inside me and I couldn’t breathe and then I think I blacked out. I don’t remember anything, except waking up here, in this room. And Ross is here and he’s – he’s not acting like Ross. And he’s doing things, he’s tying me to this bed and he’s _hurting_ me, and he’s laughing in my face and telling me all this stuff about how stupid I am and about…” Her breath catches again, and she seems to shrink back, pulling herself away from Sam, her expression turning wary and afraid. “About you. About the three of you.”

Dean holds his breath, his gaze darting between his brother’s face and Sarah’s. She’s staring at them like she’s in shock, like she’s wondering how quickly she can get away from them and call 911. She’s staring at them like she’s afraid of them.

“Sarah, please, listen to me. Whatever he said – whatever _it_ said. It wasn’t Ross. It was a demon. And demons lie,” Sam says, his voice low and urgent. “They say whatever they think is going to fuck you up the most. Demons are evil and they tell lies. Whatever it said to you it was looking to _hurt_ you. You got to remember that.”

Dean can imagine what the sonofabitch said about them, he knows exactly what kind of crap it would’ve whispered in her ear. Sam’s wrong about one thing, it wouldn’t have to be lies, not in this case, not when there are so many fucked-up truths to work with. But Sam’s working the magic eyes on Sarah, giving her the pleading sincere look. He leans in, says, “Okay?”

She nods jerkily, swallows hard. “Okay.”

Sam exhales, gives her a pained smile. “Okay. So, did it say anything, anything at all, about where it might be headed with Ross?”

“He, uh, said something about Texas.”

“We’re in Texas,” Dean says.

“Oh.” Her expression falls. She bites her lip, looks down at Sam. “Shit. I’m in Texas?”

“Dallas,” says Sam. “We’re in Dallas, this is the Dallas Hilton. You booked a room here, then you called Ross to meet you. We came here with him. Our room is on the sixth floor.”

“I called Ross?” she repeats. “But I didn’t. I don’t remember. Why am I in _Texas_?”

“It wasn’t you, it was the demon,” says Sam. He gets to his feet, sighs heavily, rakes both his hands through his hair. “Sarah, it used you to get at him. And we’re, Jesus, we’re so sorry for that.” He drops his hands to his sides, looks down at her. “I mean it.”

Dean watches her mouth work, her jaw wobble as she nods and looks around her, at the chaos and the destruction. All things considered, she’s keeping it together pretty fucking well. If it were any other situation he’d be sitting down and congratulating her. As it is, he doesn’t have time, they need to find out where Ross went, where that bastard took him. They need to get Ross back.

“Oh God, how am I supposed to explain all this?” she says, looking around helplessly. “How am I going to get home? I don’t even know if I have any money, and it could’ve taken all my money and drained my accounts and taken my cards and I don’t know what to do. What am I supposed to tell the hotel? They’ll want to call the police and—“

“Hey, _hey_ , it’s okay,” Sam says, sinking down to perch on the bed beside her. “Here.” He hands over another tiny bottle of whiskey. “Drink up and don’t think about all that crap. Listen. We have an old family friend, someone we trust. I’ll call him and he can come here and deal with everything. I promise you. It’ll be okay, he’ll sort it all out. He’ll look after you. He’ll make sure you’re safe.”

“I’m in danger?” She jerks to her feet, rounding to confront them, feeling out to steady herself on the damaged nightstand.

“Maybe,” Dean says. “It’s not certain. Usually, demons don’t possess the same person twice. They obviously used you to get to Ross. And now it’s got Ross. You should be okay.”

“But we’re not taking any chances,” Sam butts in. “We won’t let anything happen to you.”

She laughs then, high and hysterical and her entire face crumpling. “It’s a bit late for that. I should never – Christ, I’ve been so stupid! I should’ve known. I should’ve! Oh God.” She breaks off again, raises her hand to smear the tears across her face.

Dean bites his tongue, slants Sam a look. He licks his lips, says tentatively, “Hey, um, maybe you should take a shower? It’ll make you feel better. Maybe?”

She raises her head, her hands catching in her hair as she pushes it back off her tear-stained face. “You’ll be here the whole time?”

“We can leave if you prefer?” Sam says, his smile faint.

She shakes her head, and crosses to the bathroom. She disappears inside and emerges with a plastic beaker of water and a couple of packets of salt, the kind of salt packets you find on room-service trays or get from a drive-thru. She tears open both packets and empties them into the water.

“Salt,” she says. “They don’t like salt. I know that. Ross told me that. So they wouldn’t be able to do this.” She stirs the water with a finger and then raises it to her lips to take a couple of gulps. She makes a face and lowers the glass and holds it out to Dean. “Your turn.”

Dean looks down at the glass and then at her face. He’s impressed, he can see what Ross sees in this girl. She’s smart and resourceful, even in the face of – all this. He takes the glass and swallows a couple of mouthfuls. It’s not too bad; the saltiness kinda reminds him of the taste of come, though the temperature is all wrong. He hands it off to Sam who finishes up the rest of the glass. Sam holds up the glass when he’s done and places it on the nightstand.

“We’re all clean,” he says.

Sarah swallows hard, nods a couple of times. “Okay, good, good. I’ll uh—“ She gestures towards the bathroom, gives them both one last nod before she slams and locks the bathroom door behind her.

Sam gives him a look before he ducks out the room, muttering something about going to fetch his laptop. Dean exhales a long breath, pushes his hand through his hair, trying to calm his breathing. He scrolls through his contacts, lands on Bobby’s name and presses send. Sam comes back as he’s half-way through his call. He perches on the end of the destroyed bed and opens up his laptop.

Bobby’s only a couple of hours away, which is the one piece of good news all freaking day. Dean snaps the phone closed before the old guy gets a chance to ask too many questions about Ross and about just what the hell they’re doing at the Dallas Hilton.

“Anything?” he asks Sam as he pockets his phone.

Sam ignores him, staring intently at his laptop screen as he taps away.

“Sam?” Dean prompts, louder. Behind the bathroom door, he can hear the shower running. She’ll probably be in there for a while, after what happened. He knows what it’s like to have a demon touch you, to have someone you love be taken over by one of those sonsofbitches—

He swallows hard, pushes the memory away, rounds on Sam. “Dude, speak to me. What you got?”

“You expect me to pull this out of my ass?” Sam snaps, darting him a dark look. He glances back down at the screen. “Shit!”

“What?” Dean drops down on the bed beside him, tries to look down at the screen. “You’re tracking the GPS in his cell?” he says, blinking at the website.

“I was trying to,” Sam says. “Except, look,” he flicks a disgusted finger at the screen, “there’s nothing. It’s not even registering. Which means it’s either turned off, or…”

“It’s been destroyed,” Dean completes. “Of course.” He sighs. “Fuck. He’ll have bought an entirely new fucking phone by now. Close that up, we should think about moving anyway. Bobby’s gonna be here soon.”

Sam jerks his head back, blinks up at him. “We can’t just leave, Dean. Not before we know where he’s going. Besides, we can’t leave her alone.” He nods his head towards the closed bathroom door.

“Well, we can’t just sit here and wait for the old guy to turn up,” Dean snaps back.

“You got any better ideas? You just gonna drive around, _hoping_ we run into him?”

Dean looks over to the bathroom again. “Maybe she knows something. Something she’s not told us.” He doesn’t give Sam a chance to respond or shoot him down before he strides over to the closed door and taps a couple of times. “Sarah? Hey, you okay in there?”

There’s a muffled response, then the door opens. She’s still wearing the robe, a towel rolled up on her head turban-style. She doesn’t meet his eyes as she pushes past him and back into the room. He watches her head for the mini-bar, feeling helpless. Sam’s still sitting on the edge of the bed, looking after her with his big concerned eyes.

“So, Sarah?” he hazards. She snaps her head up, turns to look at him, her expression a cross between baleful and wary. “We need your help. We need you to tell us what you know. We need to know if it – if the demon – if when it was inside you, if it said anything. Anything at all. About what it was doing, where it was going, why it might want Ross? Demons – they’re arrogant sons of bitches, they like the sound of their own voice, they say a lot of shit,” he adds, thinking of Yellow Eyes, of the cabin. That bastard had had plenty to say.

She stares back at him, takes a pull from one of the mini-bottles. “I don’t know. I guess it did say some stuff.”

“Anything you can remember would help us,” Sam adds gently.

She looks at him, blinks. “It said a lot about family. I think it was talking about Ross’s family.”

“About us?” Dean says.

“No, not you two. Though, it had plenty to say about you two.” She pauses, swallows, glancing between them. “But this was – it was different. It mentioned Ross’s parents.”

“Dad?”

“Yeah, but not just him. I think it was talking about his mother. It kept saying _she_ , kept talking about a surprise for _her_. But Ross’s mother is dead, that’s what he told me.”

Sam raises his head; his eyes are burning when they meet Dean’s. Angela, Dean thinks, of course, of freaking course. That is where it’s headed. It’s taking Ross to see his mom. Fuck, as if things couldn’t get any worse.

“Sam, we gotta go,” he growls, “we don’t know how long it’s got on us. If it’s headed for Odessa—“

“Wait, Dean, no!” Sam says. He gets up from the bed, looks back towards Sarah, who’s watching the two of them warily, the tiny bottle clutched pathetically in her hand. “One of us has to stay behind,” he gestures at Sarah, “it’s not fair to leave Sarah on her own.” He straightens up, pulling himself up to his full height as he sets his shoulders. He’s about to say something Dean’s not going to like, he can see this. Sam fixes him with his dad-like stare. “You should stay here with Sarah. Wait for Bobby.”

“What, no! No fucking way, man. If one of us is gonna stay then you should—“

“No,” Sam interrupts, his eyes set in that stubborn-ass way that Dean just fucking _knows_. God damn him. God damn Sam. “No, Dean. I need to go. You know it has to be me. I’m the one with the freaky psychic whatever! I’m the one with that connection to Ross.”

“You saying I don’t have a connection to him?”

“No,” Sam says and he’s infuriatingly calm now, his eyes still burning with stubborn-ass intent. “I’m not saying that. You’re not listening to me. I’m reminding you that Ross and me, we share something that you don’t. Something none of us understand, but it’s something that has saved our asses more than once, Dean, whether you like it or not! We can’t just ignore that because you’ve got this freakin’ big brother complex. You think Ross will be happy knowing that you’ve left Sarah on her own?” He shakes his head, glares at him. “No, no way. We are not doing that. This is the best thing to do.”

Dean glares at Sam’s back mutely as he turns to pick up the laptop and slide it under his arm. Sam takes a couple of steps towards Sarah, and Dean can tell from the position of his shoulders that he’s using the softly-softly skittish horse approach again. “Hey, listen,” he says, “you’ll be okay here with Dean. And Bobby’s a great guy, I don’t know if Ross mentioned him to you, but he’s an old friend of the family. He’s like an uncle to us. And he knows his shit, he’ll know how to protect you. He won’t let anything happen to you.”

“A little too late for that,” she says, and there’s such helplessness and bitterness in her voice that Dean feels suddenly terrible. He hasn’t thought – he hasn’t given it any thought – but this girl, this cute, hot, smart girl who genuinely cares about his little brother, has been possessed. She’s been fucking possessed by a demon. And it’s their fault. They’re supposed to stop shit like this from happening. This is why they do what they do, why they fight. For good people like her. Sam’s right. They can’t just abandon her. Still, knowing that doesn’t make him feel any better about letting Sam go off on his own.

He makes Sam take the Impala, which he accepts with a grateful tight smile. After all, he and Bobby can take his ride when the old guy gets here. And he feels better knowing that Sam’s got his baby with him, that she’ll be looking after him.

“Just – be careful,” he says, fingers enclosed around Sam’s wrists as they say their goodbyes. “And don’t. Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

Sam leans in, presses their foreheads together. He cups the back of Dean’s neck, caresses his fingers over the short hair at his nape. “It’ll be okay, Dean. I’ll get him back.”

Dean holds his breath, nods a couple of times. He bows his head as Sam leaves and doesn’t look up again until he hears the car roar out of there.

 

**

Once Sarah’s dressed, they move upstairs to Sam and Dean’s room. Dean takes time to monster-proof the room, scattering salt lines across the doorway and windows and drawing devils traps. Sarah watches him from the couch, not even pretending to watch the TV playing in the corner. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater, her hair bound up into a pony-tale. She’s white-faced, her eyes reddened and sore. She keeps scratching the side of her face, like she’s got a phantom itch. He explains everything as he does it, like he’s on a freaking TV cookery show. _And now, I’m laying down this salt line on the window. And now, I’m scratching this devil’s trap with magic marker onto the ceiling._

“You want anything to eat?” he asks when he’s done.

She shakes her head. “Not hungry.”

He nods. He gets it. He’s really not hungry too. Christ, where the fuck is Bobby? The one time he needs the old guy to get here fast…

He shouldn’t have let Sammy go after Ross on his own. It was a really fucking bad decision, and Jesus, he _knows_ from bad decisions. He should be there with Sam right now, not kicking his heels, waiting around on the sidelines. Sam needs him. When has anything good ever come out of them splitting up? He’s no psychic – he’ll leave that crap to Sam and Ross – but this feels wrong. Deep down in his gut, it feels wrong.

He throws himself down on the other end of the couch, taps his fingers against his thigh. He stares at the TV. Will the demon have gotten to Odessa by now? It’s a six hour drive, not that a fucking demon’s going to be worried about breaking the speed limit, and they have no idea what kind of head start it had. It could be there already, at _The Roadhouse_ with Angela and that little kid, taking great delight in telling Ross just how his dad and his big brothers have lied to him his entire life.

They should’ve told Ross about Angela and George. They could’ve done it at any point in the last few months. Maybe when things were sort of good (relatively speaking), they should’ve told him then. So why didn’t he do it? What was the real reason he didn’t tell Ross about his non-Winchester family? Was it really for Ross’s benefit? Or was it because he was afraid that if Ross knew he had a mom and a little brother out there, he might go running to them, he might want to build a life with them, as far away as possible from Dean and Sam and their fucked-up incestuous co-dependency?

He flinches at the thought, tries to bury it away deep. It doesn’t even matter now. It’s all fucking moot. Everything’s fucked to hell and back anyway. Even if they do get Ross back, he’s never going to forgive him and Sammy for keeping that from him.

If they do get him back.

“Dean?”

He jumps as Sarah’s voice breaks the silence. He jerks his head her way. “Yeah?”

“The demon, the stuff he said to me, I know it wasn’t all lies. Some of the things it said makes so much sense.” She pauses, hesitating. She’s not looking at him, staring ahead at the TV screen. Dean’s frozen in place, he knows what she’s about to say. He can almost hear the words before she actually makes the sounds with her lips. “It said that Ross lied to me about you. He told me that you’re an old family friend, that you’re just Sam’s boyfriend. But you’re not. I know you’re not now. You’re Sam’s brother, you’re all brothers, all three of you. And I believe it. It makes sense.”

He wants to find the words to speak the denial, to tell her that demons lie, that they’re lying sonsofbitches and can’t be trusted. She can’t listen to them, it’s all bullshit, all lies. But he can’t find the words. He’s not even sure if he can deny this. Not now, not after everything she’s been through, she deserves some truth at least.

She turns her head slowly to look at him, she’s pale, a muscle twitching at the corner of her mouth. “I can see from the look on your face that it’s the truth. Ross is your brother, isn’t he?”

He nods, forces his lips to form the word. “Yes.”

“You’re all brothers,” she says dully. She sighs, bows her head, picks at a thread on her jeans. “Ross told me this fantasy one time. Well, it wasn’t really a fantasy, I suppose, it was something he’d done. With you. In a men’s room somewhere. He felt so guilty, I think he just wanted to talk to someone about it. He told me he made a pass at you, and you let him go through with it because you cared about him. But he knew the whole time that you didn’t really want it. I remember thinking it was hot, the idea of the two of you together. But I felt jealous too, because I could see how much he loved you. And that just made me sad. I know what it’s like to want someone and not have them want you back. And I could tell that you would never feel the same way about him that you do about Sam.”

He can feel the dull ache in the back of his throat, the churning in his belly. He thinks about Ross, about what he’d let Ross do in that men’s room all that time ago. How his guilt had made him give into Ross, allowed Ross to push him up against that stall wall and put his hand down his pants. But that had just been the start of it, just the tip of the iceberg, considering everything they’ve done since. Her words reverberate around his head: _I could tell that you would never feel the same way about him that you do about Sam._

“He’s my brother,” Dean says at last, because that much is true. “And Sam’s my brother too. But me and Sam, we.” He hesitates, curls his fingers around the arm of the couch. “It’s complicated. I can’t explain it, and I won’t excuse it. Because – there are no excuses, I know that. And still. It’s never gonna change,” he finishes quietly. “But Ross. He’s my brother too.”

It’s lame, it sounds lame in his ears, just a jumbled blur of words, just a swirling and knotting in his gut that he can’t explain. But there’s no other way he can say it. Ross is his little brother and he would do anything for him. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for that kid. Ever since the morning they woke up with the strange dark-haired boy in their bed. Ever since Dad gave him the order: Ross is his responsibility just like Sammy. And he’s fucked up with him, just like Sam. And now – now he’s letting Sam go out there and try and fix it, while he hangs around here, on the sidelines.

“I don’t think I want to see him, or any of you, again,” Sarah says. He glances at her, there are tears rolling down her cheeks again. She’s not bothering to wipe the tears away, letting them roll down her cheeks and chin and splash onto her jeans. “I don’t think I want to get involved in whatever this is. Whatever you’re all doing together. And it’s not. It’s not that it’s just that, just what you’ve told me. What happened – it – it would never have happened to me if I didn’t know you. But I still care about him, Dean. I want him to be happy. Despite all of this. But I just. I can’t.”

He nods, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t think there’s anything he can say to make her feel better. He holds out a tissue from the box he placed on the coffee table. She takes it from him with a thin, watery quiver of her lips. She’s right. It is their fault. She’s been possessed, _violated_ by a demon, and there’s nothing he can say to make it go away.

He’s immensely relieved when Bobby knocks on the door not long afterwards. He chucks holy water in the old dude’s face; watches Bobby shake his head and wipe it away with a roll of his eyes.

“Just checking,” he mutters.

Bobby snorts, flicks some water droplets at him. He wipes his hand on his pants, holds it out to Sarah. “Sarah, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Bobby.”

She takes his hand nervously, looking between him and Dean. “”What’s going to happen now?” she says.

“I’ll take you to the airport, or wherever you want to go. But I got something to give you first,” Bobby says. “Both of you.” He fishes a couple of amulets from his pocket, holds them out, the charms dangling and glinting on their leather thongs. “Wear one of these and don’t take it off. Ever. They’re anti-possession charms. God knows why you’ve never done this before, but thinking smart has never been a Winchester strong point. I got a couple more for your idjit brothers too when you catch up with them.” He tosses two more of the charms over to Dean.

Sarah passes the charm over her head. For the first time since they found her, she looks relieved. “Thanks,” she says.

“You’re welcome,” Bobby says. “Now let’s get moving.”

 

[Onto next part](http://sonofabiscuit77.livejournal.com/57249.html)  
**


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ross Winchester knows three things to be true: his father, John, is a hero; he’s going to be the best hunter in the goddamn world; and his two older brothers are in love with each other. An AU-version of seasons one and two where the Winchester Brothers mean Dean and Sam and Ross, where John is still missing, where Mary and Jess are still dead, and where Dean and Sam are still obsessed with each other.

The demon stops the car outside a roadhouse bar which Ross doesn’t recognise. It pulls up in a spray of gravel and sits there for a few seconds, staring through the windshield. The place is in darkness, not surprising, given that it’s not yet 5am according to the display on the dash. It’s going to be dark for at least another two hours at this time of year. The thought really doesn’t make him feel better, despite how nocturnal his life has always been, everything always feels more hopeless at night.

The demon opens the door and climbs out of the car. It takes its sweet time strolling up to the building, like it’s just out for a couple of drinks, like it’s showing off for an unseen audience, acting all deliberately cool and nonchalant. It’s weird, and what is even weirder, what’s really starting to creep Ross out, is that the demon’s actually fucking shut up for the first time since it jumped him. Instead, it’s giving off this strange sort of nervous anticipation feeling, way different from the smug gloating which seems to be the bastard’s default mode.

The main door to the bar isn’t even locked. Whoever lives here is either epically stupid or epically trusting. Then again, this is the ass-end of nowhere, West Texas, and there probably aren’t that many people around for miles in any direction, just, like, old farmers and ranchers and shit like that. Still though, this _is_ a bar, and there’s always plenty of shit worth stealing in a bar so the owner has to be pretty fucking dumb.

The demon pushes the door open and steps inside. It’s big, like, one of those big roadhouse type bars Dad used to like hanging out in, with beat-up wood floorboards and a long polished bar along one side, moonlight glinting off the bottles ranged on the shelves behind the bar. Stools and chairs are stacked up on tables and the place is deathly silent, making the sound of Ross’s boot heels ring out even louder.

The demon takes a couple of steps and hesitates. It’s still giving off that intense, anticipatory feeling, and it’s making Ross freak out even more than he is already doing. It’s weird how quickly he can get used to something, and he’s gotten used to the demon running its big fucking mouth off these past few hours. Now that it’s gone all silent, it’s like things are suddenly way more serious, like they’ve come to the end of something, or maybe the beginning of something. Whatever it is, it is freaking him the fuck out. He wishes suddenly he had a weapon on him, though, God, duh, that’s probably like the worst fucking idea ever considering he’s currently possessed by a fucking demon. But still, he feels naked without something in his hand, a knife, a gun, whatever, though God, if he is gonna waste his breath wishing for something, he’d wish that this sonofabitch would get the fuck out of him, but hey, that’s a waste of breath.

The demon takes a couple more steps, then stumbles, like it’s collided into something. It tries again, but the same invisible barrier rears up and flings it back, trapping it in place. It whips around, gaze darting up and down, and then Ross sees it, drawn faint and spidery over the well-worn floor: a devil’s trap. The bastard is caught in a fucking devil’s trap. Someone knew they were coming.

The overhead lights thunder on, casting harsh fluorescent light across the room. Two people step out from behind the bar, a woman holding a shotgun, and a teenage boy holding a super-soaker. The kid looks about thirteen, skinny and tall, with short black hair and dark glowering eyes which are locked on Ross. The woman looks like she’s in her late thirties and she's hot in that cougar kinda way with big dark eyes and big dark hair. She’s wearing tight jeans, an even tighter sweater and cowboy boots and she looks like she knows what she’s doing with that shotgun.

“George, honey,” the woman says. Her voice is rich, Southern, and eerily familiar.

The kid takes a step forward, pumps the super-soaker, and before Ross can think _what the hell_ , he’s spraying him with holy water. The demon screams, the sound and sensation clawing up through Ross’s chest, to his throat, past his lips, in a ragged, painful wail that tears at his vocal chords. The demon writhes inside him, burning and shuddering and clawing at Ross’s insides, and he thinks belatedly about all those demons they’ve dosed with holy water before, and how they must’ve been affecting the human hosts too and how they’ve never even thought about the poor fucked-up human inside.

“That’s enough,” the woman says.

The kid obeys, and takes a step back. The woman hasn’t taken her eyes off the demon – off Ross – all this time, still staring at him down the barrel of the shotgun.

“You think I wouldn’t know you were coming? I’m psychic, you sonofabitch!” she spits out.

The demon chuckles. “I know that, baby. It’s why we were so darn good together. You remember the good times, don’t you? ‘Cause I do. I never had anyone as sweet as you. Like honey, like delicious, soft honey. Even this,” it waves a hand, taking in Ross’s body, “doesn’t feel half as sweet as you did. Still, it’s the next best thing. After all, you aren't gonna shoot me, not when you might ruin this real pretty packaging.” It puts its hand on Ross’s crotch and thrusts forward like it’s doing some super fucking lame parody of a Michael Jackson dance move. “If you would only step a little closer though, the fun we might have.” It glides Ross’s tongue over his teeth and leers at her.

She stares back at him, stony-faced and flint-eyed. “This is rock-salt, you stupid asshole. It won’t kill him but it’ll sure make you scream.”

“Oh, how I’d love to make _you_ scream, baby,” it leers again. “Just remember the fun we had together? Do you remember? We were like this.” It knots its fingers together. “Like we were made for each other. Why’d you have to kick me out, sweetheart? I know you haven't had half as much fun since.”

“George, baby, the book, go get the book,” she says.

The kid doesn’t hesitate, just turns and slides back behind the bar, holding the super-soaker over his shoulder like he’s in one of those boring Western movies that Dean likes so much. The woman doesn’t change her position, just keeps staring at him down the barrel of her shotgun.

“Oh, sweetheart, why’d you have to be like that?” the demon purrs. “All I wanted was to bring us together, to reunite you with your long lost boy after all this time. How does it feel to see your baby boy all grown? He’s all man now, I can tell you that. Got a real way with the ladies, this one.”

He sees her hesitate, the mask slip for a nano-second. The demon sees it too and Ross can feel the surge of malevolent glee.

“He still hasn’t figured out who you are. Seriously, he’s his daddy’s son and that’s for sure, not an ounce of smarts in him. Not like you, not like my girl." The demon pauses as if it's waiting for her to say something, but she just licks her lips, adjusts her grip on the weapon. The demon chuckles delightedly and continues, "He’s pretty, isn't he? Just like his momma. And I can tell you what he’s been thinking about you…” It lets out a dirty kinda laugh and strokes Ross's hand over his chest, like, fucking preening and purring at her. “Still, incest – it’s the Winchester family hobby. And you know that, don’t you, baby? You knew soon as you looked at John’s big strong boys. Ahhh, Sam and Dean, if only they were here too, for a real family reunion. But do you know what Sammy and Dean-o have been doing to your baby boy? Do you know how the three of them pass those long, lonely nights together? John did. He knew.”

“Mom.” The kid emerges from behind the bar, holding out an old dusty book. The woman drags her eyes reluctantly away from the demon to take it from him. The book looks like one of the thousands of ancient boring things Bobby has, and Ross feels the demon hesitate, a tiny speck of nervousness wrinkle through him. She places the rifle on the bar and takes a step forward, ushering the kid behind her.

“George, now go,” she says.

“Mom…”

“I said _go_. Get out of here. I don’t want you seeing this. I mean it.” She’s using a Mom voice and Ross knows now, he’s staring at her through the demon’s eyes but he knows who she is now. He watches the kid leave and sees her set her shoulders again, opening the book purposefully and not looking at him.

 _Mom_ , he thinks. He never got to call her that. She was Momma to him. He was too little for Mom. But it’s her. It’s really his mom. He hears the demon chuckle, echoing Ross’s thoughts. “Yeah, that’s right, sweet-cheeks. Looking hot for a dead chick, huh?”

_I thought she was dead. Dad said that—_

“Your daddy lied, he lied about a lot of things, Ross,” the demon interrupts. “Oh, and your brothers too. Sam and Dean, they passed through here, when was it? Three or four months ago? Did they tell you about that? Did they mention that they met your mom and your little brother? Yeah, that’s right, that kid is your little bro. You should be thanking me, Rossy-Boy, bringing you all together like this, telling you the truth at last.”

_No, no, it’s not. They wouldn’t. They’d tell me, they tell me if she was alive._

“’Cause they’ve always been straight with you? They’ve never lied to you before; they’ve never kept secrets from you. Dean’s never kept huge, life-altering secrets from you. Oh, wait…” The demon’s enjoying this, it’s getting off on it, and it really shouldn’t be able to enjoy itself right now. It’s caught in a fucking devil’s trap. It’s about to be sent back to hell to rot. It’s not supposed to be having fun.

“Don’t listen to it,” the woman says. “It’s full of crap.”

“Ah, but it’s not crap. Rossy-boy knows that,” the demon mocks. “He remembers you. He remembers how you _abandoned_ him.”

“Only ‘cause you took me!” the woman busts out. She presses her lips together and curls her fingers tight around the book in her hands, like she’s regretting the outburst. In contrast, the demon is practically giddy with excitement, overjoyed at getting a reaction from her.

“Aww, there’s my girl,” coos the demon, “there’s my firecracker, my luscious little Angela.”

 _Angela_ … the name pings in his brain. The photograph Dad gave him years ago, the photograph of his mom, the pretty laughing woman with dark wavy hair holding the dark-haired, serious-eyed toddler on her knee. _Angela and Ross, 1986,_ written on the back in Dad’s scratchy handwriting. “Don’t forget her Ross,” Dad had told him. “Don’t forget about your mom.” He did though, he forgot. At some point along the line, he stopped caring, stopped wondering about her.

He watches her set her shoulders, straighten her posture and raise the book. She starts speaking, her voice loud and clear: “ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio, infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta, diabolica_.” Inside him, he feels the demon shudder as the words penetrate; clawing at his insides like it’s trying to cling on as every word loosens its hold on Ross’s body. He drops to the floor, knees hitting the wooden boards hard. “ _Ergo draco maledicte, et omnis legio diabolica—“_

_“Winchester!”_

The door smashes open, Angela whips her head up and spins around. The demon quits shaking and lurches to its feet again, gaining control of Ross’s body once more, the ritual interrupted. A guy is standing silhouetted in the doorway to the bar, a shotgun in his hand. He fires once… twice… The shots hurtle through the air, whistling over Ross’s left shoulder and into a stack of chairs piled up against the far wall. Fragments of upholstery and wood go flying, the chairs collapse with a tremendous crash, and the guy strides into the room.

“Winchester,” he repeats, voice dripping with hate. “There you are. Finally caught up with you. I swore I’d get you back for what you did.”

Ross – and the demon – gape at the newcomer. Whoever the hell he is he is one dramatic dude, standing there like he’s the fucking T-1000, about to take his revenge for... Christ, Ross has no goddamn clue what for. The guy takes another step forward into the light, and Ross finally recognises him. It’s the guy from that hunt in New York State he did months ago with Sarah, the one with the weirdo vegetarian vampires. That super-intense hunter guy he beat to a pulp. Now the revenge thing makes more sense. The guy – Gordon Walker, he remembers him now – is staring at him with such intense hatred that the demon’s practically vibrating out of his skin, delighted and amused. “Well, now, Ross, this _is_ interesting,” it coos.

“Gordon, this really isn’t a good time,” Angela cuts in, her voice tight. And wait a goddamned minute… do they, like, _know_ each other?

“Stay out of this,” Gordon says, not even bothering to look at her, his eyes locked on Ross. “This is between me and him.” He raises his hand dramatically to point at Ross. “I have unfinished business with this little bastard.”

Angela snorts, “If you’d look a little closer you’d see that ain’t Ross Winchester, that’s a demon, you stupid dick.”

Gordon hesitates and Ross watches his gaze roll over him, over the devil’s trap on the floor, then back up to his face again. The demon bats his eyelashes and preens, enjoying the attention, and Gordon’s eyes narrow even further until they’re just two glinting slits.

“Then I’ll be taking care of two evil sonsofbitches at once,” he says, speaking with that freaky unnatural calm Ross is now beginning to remember from their last encounter.

“Over my dead body you will!” Angela slams the book down onto the bar, and moves, putting her body between Gordon and the demon. “You’re not touching a hair on his head. Now stand back and let me finish this goddamn exorcism!”

Gordon pivots on her. “I don’t like raising my hand to a woman, but that doesn’t mean I won’t if I have to. I got no fight with you, Angela, you know that. I understand you might feel sentimental towards this kid, considering your _arrangement_ with his old man, but this – this is between me and him. He put me in hospital for three months. I got a score to settle with him.”

Her eyes narrow and she takes a step towards him. “This is my bar, and that is my boy, and you ain’t getting any closer to him! Get the hell outta here before I call the goddamn cops and—“

“Friends, please!” the demon interrupts. “All this fighting over little ole me. Why can’t we all just get along? Hug it out. C’mon over here, Mommy, I’ll show you how the Winchesters like to treat close family.” It raises Ross’s eyebrows and leers at Angela. “And you, big boy,” it waggles Ross’s eyebrows at Gordon, “you can wait your turn. We got plenty of love to spread around. This hot piece of ass has awesome recovery time.”

Gordon snarls, like, actually freaking _snarls_ , and lifts the shotgun to fire off two more blasts. The demon dives to the floor, Angela screams and Ross feels the shots fly way too fucking close over the top of his head, practically grazing his skull. He hears Gordon pump the shotgun, ready for another shot, but before he can fire again Angela yells something and launches herself at Gordon, making a grab for the shotgun. Gordon bats her away like she’s nothing and she tumbles into a pile of chairs and tables which tip and cascade to the floor, burying her like a freaking avalanche.

He – it – he’s not even sure anymore where he begins and the demon ends, the thing is wrapped so tightly around him, its greasy blank entrails in his mind, snaking and sliming their way through every thought and emotion. They’re lying on the floor, him and his demonic parasite, and they can hear Gordon breathing, tight and controlled, hear him calmly reload the shotgun, hear Angela’s pained whimpers. The demon’s not going to die from that gun, but he will. Fucking Gordon Walker is going to kill him. Of all the people, on all the hunts he’s been on, he’s going to die at the hands of a crazy-ass hunter, and what’s even worse, he’s going to die possessed by a fucking demon.

He wishes suddenly that Dean and Sam were here, with him. He’s always known that he’d go out bloody, but he never thought he’d go out alone. He always thought that at least one of his brothers would be there with him, that he wouldn’t have to do this on his own. He’s never been good on his own. But it’s pointless wishing for anything different right now. Sam and Dean aren’t here, they’re… wherever the hell they are, fuck, they probably don’t even know he’s gone. That demonic sonofabitch played them all so fucking well, him, Sarah... Shit, Sarah. He thinks of how he left her, tied to that bed, bruised and hurt and beyond traumatised. He did that to her. That’s all on him.

At least, if he’s gonna die here right now then maybe the demon won’t get away after all. It’s still trapped pretty good and solid, and Gordon might be seriously fucked in the head, but he’s still a hunter, he wouldn’t let a demon get away, no freaking way. Maybe that’s why the demon’s shut up again; it knows that it’s screwed to hell and back, like, literally. But shit, if Ross is gonna die any second now then it would be nice to be able to close his eyes and let it happen, to curl up on this floor, even with the damn splinters jabbing into his cheek, and to just… let it happen. Maybe it won’t be so bad, the whole dying thing, he’ll get to see Dad again, and that – God – he would like that more than anything, just to see Dad again. But right now, he ain’t the one driving this stupid useless body and he can’t even close his own goddamn eyes because the demon’s not even going to give him that. The demon’s eyes – _his_ eyes – are wide open and focussed on the inked lines of the devil’s trap, and there’s this spot where the inky lines have gotten scuffed, one edge looking like it’s worn away a little. In fact…

The demon notices in the same split second it registers in Ross’s brain. It’s on its feet before Ross finishes processing the thought - _the devil’s trap is broken_ \- and then it’s lunging out, a wave of psychic power smashing through the bar like a thunderclap. The shotgun in Gordon’s hand hurtles across the room, through a window in a terrifying explosion of glass. The demon turns its attention to Gordon, flicks its wrist, and Gordon is flung backwards and into the far wall. The demon twitches his fingers and Gordon’s body starts to slide up the wall until his feet are dangling a few inches above the floor. The demon grins, rolls Ross’s shoulders, and steps elegantly out of the devil’s trap.

It turns Ross’s head and looks down at where Angela is lying under the pile of furniture. It waves a hand and the furniture rolls away. She gets slowly to her feet, her eyes locked warily on Ross’s face, her body shaking. The demon smiles at her, and twitches his fingers again, flinging her across the room and up against the same section of wall as Gordon. They’re both dangling there like life-size corn dollies. The demon sighs when it’s done, all job well done. It rolls Ross’s shoulders again, turning his head this way and that, working the cricks out of his neck. It’s gone back to enjoying itself again, revelling in the power which hums and crackles through Ross’s body like an EMF meter.

The demon saunters towards its two prisoners and stops in front of Angela. He lifts Ross’s hand to stroke the side of her face. She whimpers and tries to turn her head out of the touch, but she can’t, of course she can’t, she’s frozen in place. The demon cups her cheek and drags its thumb almost lovingly over her bottom lip.

“Mmm, just wait till I’ve dealt with this loser, then we’ll be reunited, my luscious Angelita, and it’ll be so good. I promise it will be so good.” He leans in, plants a hard kiss to the corner of her mouth, hand going up to grip the back of her neck. “You smell so sweet, baby, just like I remember.” He leans back and smiles at her, giving her cheek one last, lingering pat, before he moves onto Gordon.

“You’re gonna roast in hell, Winchester,” Gordon spits out.

The demon rolls its eyes. “Yeah, whatever.” It puts Ross’s hands on Gordon’s neck and twists. Ross hears the bones crack and splinter, giving and crumbling so ridiculously easily under his fingers. The demon takes a step back, Ross’s hands drop to his sides and Gordon’s lifeless body slides down the wall and slumps to the floor. The demon wrinkles its nose in distaste and kicks Gordon’s body aside with the toe of Ross’s boot. “Now, where were we?” It says, turning back to Angela.

“ _Ross_!”

The demon pauses, huffs out an irritated breath. Ross can feel it rolling its eyes again, thinking, _What the fuck now? How many more goddamn interruptions?_ But this one is different, this voice Ross knows better than he knows his own voice, and Ross feels a smile roll across his face as the demon also realises who it is.

“Sammy,” the demon says. “Finally. I was waiting for you two to turn up. But what’s this? Where’s your older and dumber boyfriend? Don’t tell me you came here all on your lonesome. Killing you won’t be nearly so fun if Dean-o isn't here to watch.”

“Get out of him!” Sam grits out. He’s holding his Beretta, got it trained on Ross, not that that’s going to do anything to help, but it’s probably making Sam feel better which Ross totally understands. “Get out of him, or I swear to God, I’ll—“

“What?” the demon interrupts. “What will you do? Bend a spoon at me. Think at me _real_ hard.” It snorts contemptuously. “No, I didn’t think so. No, honey-buns. You can wait your turn, too!” It waves a hand and Sam flies across the room, slamming up against the opposite wall.

“Now, who shall I deal with first, I wonder,” the demon says musingly, tapping his index finger against Ross’s chin.

 _Don’t hurt him,_ Ross thinks desperately.

“Wait, what was that, littlest bro? You got something to say?” the demon pauses, thrilled, and cocks Ross’s head, catching Ross’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

_Don’t hurt my brother. Please, I’ll – I’ll let you—_

“What? What will you _let_ me? Where I’m standing kiddo, you got nothing to bargain with. I already got your cute ass, and really, considering all the wear and tear, it's not even that cute anymore.” It snorts amusedly. “What else you got?”

_I won’t struggle. I’ll let you use me. If you let Sam go, I’ll let you do what you want._

The demon snorts, laughter fizzing out of Ross’s nose and mouth. “Oh please. Stop, just stop. You’re hurting me with the pathetic. Let’s face it, little bro, you’re a waste of skin. You’re nothing. Your daddy was nothing, your brothers are nothing, your momma, sure, I gotta admit I got a real soft spot for her. But as I already got her exactly where I want her,” it breaks off, blows a kiss at Angela, “there’s nothing you got that I want, Rossy-boy. So I’m gonna finish off gigantor over there, then I’m gonna finish off you, just like you finished off my daddy - you remember that? Do you remember killing my daddy? Well, I'm gonna kill all your family, Ross, all of them. Wherever Dean is, I'm gonna find him and kill him too. Maybe I'll do it dressed as you, or maybe I'll put on something fancier for that particular party."

“Ross,” Sam pleads, “Ross, please…”

The demon raises Ross’s hand and makes a fist. The words choke from Sam’s throat as his face pales, pained, hacking gurgles rising up through his throat.

“Sorry? What was that?” the demon says, walking towards Sam. “Didn’t quite catch that.”

Sam gasps and gurgles for breath, his eyes lock on Ross’s face, wide and desperate and pleading. He looks kinda ridiculous, his eyes bulging, his forehead huge and straining, lips opening and closing like a dying fish. The demon relaxes his fist and Sam heaves in a whoosh of breath, the air rattling through his lungs.

“How’s it feel to be iced by something wearing your little bro’s face, huh, Sammy? Kinda poetic, don’t you think? All those times, Ross wished you dead, all those times he wished you’d stay permanently locked away in your comfortable college-boy lifestyle, all those times he wished you weren’t around, ruining his life, crushing his dreams, stealing his big brother from him. With you gone – well, littlest bro finally gets exactly what he always wanted: his big brother all to himself. You know, it’s a real shame neither of them will be around to enjoy it.”

_Bullshit, that’s bullshit, I don’t want that, I never wanted that!_

“Methinks you’re protesting just a little too much there, sweetheart,” the demons says. It darts Sam a conspiratorial look, “He’s trying to make out like he hasn’t wished you dead dozens of times before.”

_I haven’t! And if I did, then I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it._

“For the love of Lucifer, shut up! You know you used to be amusing Ross, the angst, the desperation, messing with you – it was kinda fun, but now... you are so freaking pathetic that it’s just boring.”

The demon raises his hand again and clenches his fist. Sam chokes, shudders, throat convulsing. Thick, frothy blood splutters out of his mouth and splatters his chin. The demon saunters towards him, puts one hand to the wall above Sam’s shoulder and stares down into his face. “Not lookin’ so hot there, Sammy.”

_What are you doing to him?_

“Just rearranging his insides. You’ll like the results. Very Jackson Pollock.”

“Ross,” Sam whispers. Tears seep free from the corner of his eyes, roll down his cheeks, mingling with the dried blood on his lips and chin. His eyes lock on Ross’s face, bore into him. “Please, Ross.”

“That’s enough,” the demon growls. It clenches Ross’s fist again.

The scream dies on Sam’s lips, his body spasms, his eyes roll closed. He’s dying, Ross thinks, he’s dying. The demon – it – _me_ – I’m killing him. I’m killing Sam. He can feel the demon inside him, stretching and flexing and enjoying the power, _revelling_ in it.

Blood drips from Sam’s slack lips and onto his plaid shirt. Ross stares at the shirt, mesmerised, he remembers stealing that shirt from Sam’s bag a couple of weeks ago when he was out of clean clothes. It was stupidly big, just like its owner, the sleeves hung over Ross’s wrists and got in the way, but unlike his own stuff, it was clean. Sam was really pissed with him and bitched for fucking hours about it, so Ross offered to do the laundry just to get him to shut the hell up. Sam still insisted on going with him, though, because he has this thing where he thinks Ross is incapable of doing the damn laundry, like, Ross is that retarded, like he didn’t spend years while Sam was off at Stanford doing the fucking laundry. And so they went to do it together and Sam kept bitching about the stupid fugly shirt, and so Ross pushed him up against one of the dryers and made out with him, right there, in full view of everybody in the freaking Laundromat just to get him to shut up. Of course Sam being Sam just reacted in his usual over-the-top way and grabbed hold of Ross and licked and ate at his mouth, devouring his tongue in that way he had where he kissed like he wanted to suck out your soul.

 _No,_ Ross thinks, the word like a spade to the back of the head. _No. This is not happening again. I lost my dad ‘cause of you bastards, you are not taking my brother from me._

The demon hesitates, the power crackles, fizzes out like a faulty firework. The black, oily essence vibrates inside Ross, flickering and slithering through his bloodstream. “What are you doing, Ross?” it hisses out, sounding seriously pissed.

Ross ignores it. He’s concentrating... concentrating harder than he ever has in his stupid, sorry life. He can feel the demon trying to hide from him, trying to slink and skitter away like a spider in a dark corner, but he’s not letting it get away, not this time.

“You’re not gonna win, kiddo,” the demon hisses again, but it’s running scared now, not as cocky as it was, and there’s an edge of uncertainty and even fear to its voice.

Ross ignores it. He watches Sam’s eyes flutter open, weak and hazy, and he reaches. Using all the power he can muster, he _snatches_ for it. The demon flails, wails and thrashes, but Ross has it now. He has the sonofabitch, he can feel it, he can feel his own power, his own whatever the fuck it is, and he’s stronger than that bastard right now, and he has it.

He reels from the sudden return to his body, his arms and legs and hands and feet returning to _his_ control like agonising pins and needles. He stumbles forward, and feels someone – Sam – that’s Sam, that’s Sammy - released from the demon’s power now, and Sam’s holding him up, his enormous man-paws on Ross’s shoulders, steadying him.

“Ross, hey, hey, Ross, you okay?”

Ross jerks his head up, clutches onto Sam. Sam’s face is a mess, blood and snot and tears and bruises around his throat and neck. “I have it, Sammy. The demon, I have it…”

“It’s okay, I got you,” Sam says. His hands fall to Ross’s face, his big palms cupping Ross’s face. “Take it, take what you need.”

He doesn’t think, everything instinctive, just as Dad always taught them. He covers Sam’s hands with his own. The touch is electric, like, literally, _electric_ , the same jolt to his system as in that cabin all those months ago. A blinding, deafening crack, and his insides are exploding, shattering into a million fucking pieces, and he’s reeling, falling and tumbling to the floor, and Sam is with him, and the demon is gone, like, just... _gone_. Not exorcised, but gone. Annihilated. Torn to shreds. And that was them: him and Sam, they did it, they killed the demon with the power of their freaking minds.

He’s not sure when he comes around or how long he’s out for, but they’re on the floor, both he and Sam are lying on the floor, their arms and legs all tangled up like cell phone chargers at the bottom of a duffle bag. Around them, chairs and tables and stools and pictures and even the freaking light fittings lie in splinters, like a bomb has ripped through the entire bar.

His head is throbbing, his chest heaving up and down as he regains his breath. Sam is a heavy, dead weight on top of him and he squirms, tries to roll his brother off him. Distantly, he can hear someone calling his name, but his head is throbbing so much and he feels like he’s been deafened, like a bomb really has gone off.

He drags his tongue around his mouth, tries to find his voice. “Sammy?” It comes out a croak, his lips barely making the words. He tries again: “Sam?”

Sam isn’t moving.

The realisation snaps into his brain like a gunshot, and instantly he’s scrabbling out from under his brother, deadened, shell-shocked limbs finally responding like they should. He rolls Sam onto his back and leans over him.

“Sam? Sammy?”

There’s no puff of air against his cheek, no beat-beat-beat of a pulse under his fingertips, Sam's chest is not going up and down like it should be.

“Ross?”

He whips his head around, sees Angela leaning over him, looking down at Sam.

“He – he – he ain’t breathing, he – he – please—“

Angela falls to her knees on the other side of Sam. Her hands go to Sam’s head, tipping it back, finding the airway, just as Dad always taught them. She makes a fist over Sam’s chest with both hands and starts to pump. He sees a tear splash onto Sam’s face, and realises distantly that it’s one of his. He didn’t even notice when he started crying. Angela finishes the first set and dives in for the two breaths, then she starts again, massaging Sam’s chest.

He’s waiting for it to be okay. He’s waiting for Sam to lurch up, to cough and splutter and reach out for him, like they do on TV. He’s waiting for it to happen because he knows that it will happen. Of course it will happen. Of course Sam will be okay.

Time passes and Ross loses count of how many reps Angela has done, how many times she’s pressed down on his brother’s heart, how many times she’s cupped his chin and breathed into his mouth. He’s only aware of the moment she lifts her hands from Sam’s chest and sits back on her haunches, her head bowed. Ross watches her unmoving, not saying anything. Finally, she raises her head and he notices that she’s crying. Her eyes are red and watery and there are slimy trails down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she says. “But he…”

Ross looks away from her face, from her mouth saying those words that he’s just not going to hear. He’s just not. He’s not listening to that. He looks down into Sam’s face, his gaping eyes, his slack mouth, the dried blood on his lips. His hair is a mess, tangled and sweaty and falling in his eyes like it usually does. He hears Angela get to her feet, her steps stumbling and unsure as she makes her way through the bombed-out chaos of her bar. He hears voices, Angela’s voice, and a kid’s voice, that kid’s voice, his little brother. He’d totally forgotten about him.

He leans over Sam, putting his lips to Sam’s. They feel moist and they smell of blood. Both things aren’t that unusual for Sammy. He gives him a kiss, turns his face so his nose nuzzles into Sam’s cheek, his lips catching on Sam’s stubble. He slides one hand under Sam’s head, fingers tangling in his messy, greasy hair, and leans over him so he can slide his other hand under Sam’s body. He heaves Sam onto his lap and pulls him in tight. He presses his face into Sam’s neck and breathes in the scent of his skin.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there holding his brother. He’s not aware of time, of Angela trying to speak to him, of the kid hovering around somewhere in the background. He only knows that he has to keep Sam safe, he has to keep hold of him until Dean gets there. He’s not letting go until Dean gets there. Dean will know what to do.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit shorter than normal, because I just had to put it out there and it feels like I've been working on this chapter for forever.   
> This story isn't dead and the second half of this chapter is already half-written.

“You got to stop him, Ross,” Sam says. 

The two of them are standing in front of the mirror, and Sammy is young, like thirteen, maybe fourteen years old. He’s got that stupid bowl haircut he had back then and Ross watches him purse his lips and blow out a breath which makes his bangs ruffle up. He makes a face into the mirror, at Ross, his eyes crossing and his nose scrunching up, and Ross laughs despite himself, because he can’t remember the last time he and Sammy just goofed around together. 

He makes a face back at Sam and notices for the first time that he’s young too, like twelve or thirteen. He’s the same height as Sam, just like he was that year they were in junior high together when he grew quicker than Sam and everyone kept thinking they were twins. 

_This must be a memory,_ he thinks. _This isn’t really happening right now, it’s a memory, it’s something I should remember._

Sam shakes his head at their reflections, says, “Nope, not a memory. Guess again.” He smirks at them both, like he’s trying out the look on his face, the one that makes him look a little like Dean, except Dean’s face suits it much better than Sammy’s. 

“Remember this?” Sam says and he raises his hand. He’s holding a tube of lipstick and he tilts his head to one side, and draws a couple of lines across one cheek with the lipstick like gashes. Then he tilts his head the other way and does it again to the other cheek so it’s all symmetrical. He lowers his hand when he’s done and bares his teeth at his reflection, making a scary face, like he’s play-acting as a Red Indian. 

“It’s Native American, dumbass,” Sam says and shakes his head at him, doing that annoying superior look, like he’s so much fucking smarter than Ross. 

Ross shoves him with his shoulder and Sam shoves him back and they scuffle for a while until Sam’s laughing and holding his hands up to admit defeat. He looks really stupid with lines of lipstick across his cheeks and Ross itches to tell him that, except for some reason he can’t get the words out. It doesn’t seem to matter though as Sam hears them anyway, and just shrugs, all cool and whatever, and holds out the lipstick. 

“Your turn, assface,” Sam says. Ross doesn’t want to do it and he bares his teeth at Sam, but Sam’s ignoring him as usual, tapping his fingers against the side of the sink. “If you don’t do it then you’ll flunk English, you know that,” Sam tells him. 

He does know that because that bitch of a teacher, Mrs. Bitchface, said he had to do it. She needs twins for the play and he and Sammy look enough alike to pass as twins and anyway, Sam’s already in the stupid play and she said she’d give Ross a B if he goes through with it, and Ross can’t remember the last time he got a B in anything. Still though, he’s not putting fucking lipstick on his face. He glares at Sam in silent protest, but Sam just sighs again, like Ross is a huge pain in the ass, and grabs Ross’s chin. 

“I’ll do it then,” Sam says. 

He tries to protest and shove Sam away but Sam’s got him held fast in one of his freakishly big hands, and they might be practically the same height but Sam’s still got enormous hands and a surprising amount of strength for someone who’s so freaking bony. So Ross gives in and slumps against the sink and lets Sam draw matching lipstick lines on his cheeks. 

“Very nice,” Sam says approvingly when he’s done, and Ross rolls his eyes at him. Sam pops the cap on the lipstick and sets it down neatly on the edge of the sink. He looks up and meets Ross’s eyes in the mirror and says, “Do you remember now? It’s very important, Ross.” 

Ross frowns because he has no freaking idea what the hell Sam is talking about. He learned his lines already; Sam made him recite them with him last night while Dean watched them both and tried not to laugh at their attempts at “acting”. And anyway, he only has, like, three freaking lines in the shitty play, and the rest of it is just following Sam around and doing what he does, being mirror fucking images, and he can totally do that, he’s been doing that most of his life. 

“You got to stop him,” Sam says and this time when Ross glances in the mirror he sees that Sammy’s not thirteen anymore, he’s twenty four and there’s a bloody gash in his cheek, an exact replica of the lipstick warpaint, except it isn’t lipstick, it’s real blood and it’s rolling down Sam’s cheek and dripping into the sink. “You hear me, Ross? Only you can do it.” 

Ross wants to tell him he doesn’t know what the fuck Sam is talking about but he still can’t speak out loud and Sam’s staring at him, all freakishly intense, his eyes all dark and burning up. It really isn’t fair that Sam gets to be all grown up and in charge and know what he’s talking about while Ross is still twelve years old with stupid lipstick marks on his cheeks and no fucking idea what is going on. 

Sam reaches down and grips Ross’s hand, his enormous adult manpaw completely swallowing up Ross’s 12 year old hand. “I’m counting on you, Littlest Bro. You’re the only one who can save us. You got to stop Dean. He thinks it’s all on him, but it’s you, Ross, you’re the one.” 

**

_“Ross?”_

Ross lurches awake. 

He’s lying on a table, his head pillowed on his arms, and someone’s touching his shoulder. 

“Dean?” he murmurs, though he knows it’s not Dean, he can tell from the weight of the hand on his shoulder and the voice that it’s not Dean. He can still hope though. 

“No, honey, it’s not Dean. You were sleeping.” 

He raises his head and blinks at his surroundings. He’s in a kitchen, at the kitchen table to be more accurate, and his arms are numb, skin tingling with pins and needles as the blood starts to flow again. He stares down at the wooden grain of the table and slowly registers that he slept here, with his head on his arms. He doesn’t think he’s ever done that before, at least not in some random stranger’s kitchen. 

“You should drink some water,” the woman says as a glass of water appears in front of him. 

He licks his lips; she’s right, he’s really thirsty and his lips feel chapped. He flexes his fingers, waits for the feeling to restore completely to his hand, and then he reaches for the glass and takes a sip. It feels good going down, his throat ragged and sore, but the water is soothing. He drinks all of it. 

“Want some more?” the woman says. 

Her voice is familiar, and he looks up at her, recognizing her immediately. 

Momma. 

And Sam is dead. 

He killed his brother. 

The realization steals his breath for a second and he sits there numbly staring up at her, at her soft, sad eyes that are really like his own. 

“Ross? Baby, you want any more?” 

“I’m not your baby,” he says carefully, shaping his lips around each word. 

Her expression falls and he feels viciously pleased. 

“I know,” she says, “I know that, and I’m sorry. I wish I could explain – but there’s just so much.” She breaks off, takes a breath, her voice cracking when she speaks again, “There’s so much for us to talk about, but I just want you to know…” 

He stares blankly at her and listens to her voice and he thinks that he doesn’t care about anything she’s trying to say to him. Sam is dead and it’s his fault. His freaky powers killed Sam, and everything else is just white noise. He watches her mouth and lips and tongue move and he hears none of it. 

“Where’s Dean?” he interrupts. 

She pauses, licks her lips, glances towards the open kitchen door. “He’s still with your brother.” 

He pushes himself out of the chair, and walks out of the room. His legs are all shaky and trembling and there’s an enormous hole in his stomach where someone has dug out his insides and forgotten to replace them. He thinks that maybe he might be hungry, but the thought of trying to stuff food into that hole makes him want to throw up. 

There’s a landing outside the kitchen which reminds him that they’re over a bar and his mom has her own bar, which would be cool if he even gave a crap right now about anything like that. There are lots of doors along the landing and he stands in the middle of it, looking around, trying to figure out where he's supposed to go now and where the hell Dean has gotten to. 

He's with your brother, his mom - Angela, no, he's going to call her Angela right now - had said, and he remembers that they put Sam into one of the rooms and Dean went in there with him and Dean didn’t come out. 

He thinks that might've been two days ago, but he has no fucking clue. 

There's a big window at one end of the landing, light spilling through in criss-cross shapes. He wanders towards it and looks outside because he’s not even sure what time of day it is. The parking lot is all dust and stones and gravel and a few parked cars, the Impala among them, and that car the demon had stolen when he'd been riding him, and an old junker that looks a lot like the piece of shit Bobby Singer drives. Right on cue, Bobby appears from around the side of the building, trudging across the parking lot with a heap of firewood in his arms. 

"He's building a funeral pyre," someone says from behind Ross. 

Ross starts, turns his head to see that kid – his younger brother - standing beside him and watching Bobby go past. 

He hasn't spoken to the kid yet, it's another of those things that he can't figure out, that his brain hasn't got room for right now. There's too much other stuff in there ( _Sammy is dead_ ) that he can't get his mind to take in the whole idea that he has another family, and that it's no longer just him and Dean and Sam and Dad, but he has a mom and a little brother, too. It occurs to him that he doesn't even know right now if Dad is this kid's father - if this kid has taken his own place in the family as the youngest son, just like he took Sammy's all those years ago. 

"It's for that hunter guy - you know, Gordon Walker," the kid says. "My mom had a fight with Bobby about it, he said he deserved a real hunter's funeral, and Mom said he didn't because he was an asshole who was going to kill her. I think Bobby won 'cause he's building a pyre anyway and my mom's pretending not to care." 

"Oh," Ross says. He'd forgotten about Gordon Walker. "So you know Bobby?" 

"Yeah. He used to come visit sometimes, like John. I mean, your dad." The kid speaks like it’s not important, like it’s just totally normal that he knew Dad and he knew Bobby and everyone knew everything, except him. 

He’s got dark hair and dark eyes and Ross supposes that they look like each other, like their mom, maybe like their Dad too, he can't remember. He’d need to look a picture of Dad again to check that, but he can’t bear the thought of it. Dad would be really mad at him for killing Sammy. 

"Have you seen Dean?” he asks the kid. 

The kid blinks at him, jerks his head towards another closed door. “He’s in there.” 

"Okay, thanks," Ross says. His heart is beating fast and he feels nervous and sick to his stomach, and it’s so weird and wrong to think that he’s scared of seeing Dean again. But it’s his fault because he killed Sam, and however much Dean insists that he loves both of them, Ross knows that Dean has always loved Sam best, and Dean will never forgive him, and honestly, he doesn't think he deserves to be forgiven. 

He knocks on the door, just a light tap. There’s no answer, so he tries again. It’s weird, doing this, knocking is never something he’s done much before, not when it comes to Dean. He's always barged in on Dean's spaces; he’s never wanted to have space away from Dean. 

“Dean, it’s me,” he says quietly, speaking with his mouth up against the door. “Let me in please.” 

He hears a rustling noise and a creak and then the door is opening slowly, and Dean’s head peers around it. He blinks at Ross, grabs a hold of his shirt and yanks him inside, slamming the door behind him. 

“Did Bobby send you?” he asks, eyes wary and suspicious. 

“No. I just – I wanted to see him,” he says. The room has two single beds, Sam is lying on the nearest one, except… no, that’s not Sam, it’s Sam’s _body_ because it’s so horribly, awfully obvious now that Sam is dead. He looks like a corpse, and although he still sort of looks like Sam, it’s not really Sam, and he’s not going to wake up and he’s dead. He’s really dead. 

“Oh, right,” Dean says. He turns his back on Ross and Sam’s body and drops onto the other bed which is piled and strewn with books. 

Ross watches him in silence for what feels like a long time, standing in the middle of the room. He can feel Sam lying there, just lying there, he can see him from the corner of his vision, and he thought it was a good idea to come and see Sam, but it’s really fucking obvious now that it was a stupid fucking idea and he should never have come in here because Sammy is really dead. 

Dean starts turning pages in one of the old books, head bent so low that his chin’s almost touching his chest and his body looks like a C shape. 

“What are you doing?” Ross says, his voice sounds all cracked, so he clears his throat and tries again. “What are you reading?” 

Dean jerks his head up and blinks at him, like he’s trying to get dust out of his eyes. “Trying to fix it,” he says. 

Ross nods, he can feel the lump in his throat swell up. “I want to help.” 

Dean licks his lips, nods at him. He pushes aside a pile of the books to make room for Ross on the bed. “Sit down and get reading then.” 

 

**

They’re walking down a dirt road, kicking up dust and Ross has a tennis ball that he’s dribbling like it’s a soccer ball. He’s about fourteen years old because he’s wearing those Nike sneakers he found in the Goodwill that time, right at the bottom of a box of shoes. They were orange and black and he could remember a rich kid in one of his old schools had a pair just like them, and this pair looked like they’d never even been worn. When he showed them to Dean, Dean rolled his eyes disgustedly and said, “Jesus, must be nice to be rich.” Dean bought them for him and Ross wore them until they literally fell apart. 

“Quit it,” Sam says. 

Ross ignores him, just kicks the ball up into the air with the toe of his shoe. Sam leans over and snatches it out of the air. He stuffs it into his pocket and glares at Ross. 

“Jesus, you’re such an annoying little bitch,” Ross says. He smacks his lips together a couple of times because it feels good to speak again, and it’s kinda nice that Sam is here too. There was some stupid reason why he was missing Sam and he can’t think right now why that might be because Sam is just, like, seriously, the most irritating person in the world and he’s always there in Ross’s space. But this is a dream and he knows that, in the way you always know you’re in a dream, but it’s also a memory and he thinks that maybe he and Sam ended up fighting after Sam stole his tennis ball, and Dad grounded them. 

“Yeah, and you’re a brat,” Sam says, shrugging. “Get over it.” 

“ _Get over it_ ,” Ross mocks. 

“Hilarious,” Sam says. "You're so totally hilarious." 

They keep walking, and it doesn’t feel like they’re going to fight, so obviously this is a dream, and something weird will happen right now because time is slipping and sliding and changing like it does in dreams, though the landscape around them hasn’t changed at all: the road is still all dust and dirt and the fields are still scorched. He glances across at Sam and thinks: _oh, so that’s what’s different,_ because Sammy suddenly isn’t 16 anymore, but 24 and he’s got matching bloody tracks across his cheeks like warpaint. 

“You should’ve listened to me,” Sam says and Ross sees that his lips and tongue are stained bright red with blood. 

“I never listen to you, you know that,” he tells him, because it’s true and Sam should know that. 

“Yeah, but this is important, Ross,” Sam says. He puts his hand on Ross’s arm to stop him and Ross stares down at it, shocked by how freaking enormous Sam’s hand looks wrapped around his skinny forearm. 

“ _Dude_ ,” he protests. 

Sam just squeezes harder. “Listen to me,” he says, and his voice is low and bubbling with intensity and it really isn’t fair that he sounds all gruff and manly and Ross sounds like a freaking teenager. How’s he supposed to fight when he’s stuck at age fourteen? “You got to stop Dean.” 

“Yeah, you said that before, how about being, like, I don’t know, a little more precise?” Ross says, rolling his eyes. 

Sam pushes out a frustrated breath. “You _know_ what I mean. You already know it. You know what he’s going to do. Read a fucking book for once.” 

Ross wrenches his arm out of Sam’s grasp. “I have no fucking idea what to do!” he shouts at Sam because he’s remembering now and Sam is just standing there with blood rolling down his cheeks like tears and mingling with the war-paint smudges that he put on before, and it’s staining his skin, which really shouldn’t be that pale – except of course, Sam is fucking dead, so of course he’s fucking pale. Christ, he’s so stupid sometimes. 

“You’re dead and it’s my fault, but I don’t know how to get you back! We’ve been looking and looking and we didn’t find anything! Please – just – just tell me what to do.” He falls forward, fists his hands in Sam’s shirt and presses his face into Sam’s chest where his heart is no longer beating. 

He feels Sam’s enormous hand land on top of his head and ruffle through his hair. He lifts his head up and stares up at his brother. Sam smiles down at him, soft and intimate. 

“Ross, Littlest Bro, you’ll know what to do. I have faith in you.” 

** 

This time when he wakes up, his cheek is resting half on the pillow and half on an open book. He raises his head and he can see Sam's body from the corner of his eye, and he’s still dead, and his chest hurts so hard he wants to scream. 

Dean is gone. 

He lurches to his feet and a book tumbles onto the floor with a heavy thud. He ignores it and stumbles across the floor to Sam's body. He sinks to his knees by the bed and stares at his brother's silent, cold face. 

“I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he says. 

Sam doesn’t say anything of course because he’s fucking dead. Ross blinks and he can feel tears, hot and burning at the back of his eye sockets, starting to blur his vision. He brushes them away furiously and leans in closer. Sam’s lips look blue, his skin has that pale look to it that Ross has seen so many times before, in so many corpses over the years, but he’s never really taken notice of it before now. It's never mattered before now.

“You know I hate all that cryptic shit,” he says. “I don’t know why you’re doing that – being all fucking cryptic. You _know_ I hate it, Sammy.” He can feel the tears roll down his cheek now, the moisture sinking into his skin. He sniffs and bows his head until his forehead presses against Sam’s shoulder. Sam feels stiff and cold and dead, and Ross curls his fingers around the bed frame and squeezes, tight, tight, tight; tight enough to dig grooves into his fingers. He can feel his chest start to heave, his breathing getting hard and forced like he’s going to hyperventilate, and he realizes dimly that he’s crying for real now, the bed covers under his nose and cheeks feel damp and sticky with his tears and snot. 

He rolls his head to one side to take a heaving breath, and the book that fell to the floor catches in the corner of his vision. He blinks at it, absently watching the pages flutter and then settle onto a chapter heading with a spiky line drawing. 

_Crossroads demons and demon deals,_ he reads. He stares at it and feels the breath catch in his throat. He staggers to his knees and crawls across the floor. He picks up the book and reads the page. He looks up, blinks at Sam's body and feels the book slide out of his hands. Then he takes a breath, surges to his feet and runs out of the room. 

He knows what it has to do now. 

 

** 

 

The Impala is gone, just like he knew it would be. That doesn’t matter though, because the car he drove here in – the car the demon drove here in – is still there, sitting pretty with a full tank, and the keys are still in his pocket because he hasn’t bothered to change his clothes in three days. 

He palms the keys, fisting his fingers tight around them, and runs across the parking lot towards the car. 

“Ross!” 

He ignores the voice, still heading for the car. He pauses when he gets to the car, puts his hand on the roof and turns around. 

“Ross!” Angela is running towards him, her hair flying, her feet bare and a panicked, terrified look on her face. “No, baby, no, this isn’t the way!” she pleads. She grabs onto his arm, tries to pull him around, but he shakes her off. “No, please, don’t do this.” 

“When did Dean go?” 

She stares at him, her chest heaving and hands fluttering, pawing at him, trying to get him to move away from the car, trying to tug him backwards, back with her towards the building where Sam’s dead body has lain for two fucking days too long. 

“Did you see him? You gotta tell me! When did he leave? Where did he go?” 

She shakes her head. She’s crying now, her face all scrunched up in a way that reminds him painfully of Sam. “No, Ross, baby, please.” 

“I told you, I ain’t your baby!” He curls his fingers around her arm, forces her to look into his eyes. “If you even give two shits about me, then tell me this: where did Dean go? I know you know.” 

She stares back at him, then slowly, reluctantly, starts to speak: “Two miles east of here, there’s a dirt road on your right. Head down there about a mile till it meets a crossroads. There’s a lot of bad history associated with that place, and a lot of power. That’s where he’ll be.” 

He nods his head, heaves a breath, letting his hand fall to his side. “Thanks.” 

He turns his back on her and gets into the car. When he glances in his rear-view mirror he can still see her, standing alone in the middle of the parking lot. He swallows, adjusts his grip on the wheel and puts his foot to the gas, watching the needle hover over 80, 90, 100mph as he roars down the road, Angela fading from view. 

He sees the opening on his right and he swerves the wheel around, foot stamping on the brake pedal as the car bumps and lunges through the small opening. Branches whip at the paintwork and the tires crunch and smack over fallen branches which rear up and lash at the windscreen. 

He barely blinks at it, eyes focussed intently on the road, on the crossroads coming into view, and the two figures standing in the middle of it. His brother and a tall, sinuous brunette in a slinky dress. A demon, he can feel it already, feel the crinkle at the back of his neck, the shiver down his spine. 

He feels something shift deep down in the pit of his gut, something coming awake, a coil of something dark and intense and knowing. It’s his power, and he knows now how he’s going to use it. It’s the same dark evil something that destroyed the demon and killed Sam. But he’s not afraid of it any longer, the worst has been done, and he knows now what he has to do – Sammy has told him what he has to do. 

He sees Dean whip his head up and glare at him as he smashes his foot to the brake. The car skids, spins but eventually comes to a rest in a spray of dirt and stones and torn up branches. He kills the engine and lurches out of the car. Dean is stomping towards him, a furious look on his face. In contrast, the demon standing behind Dean has her arms crossed, her expression darkly triumphant and smug. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Dean roars at him. “Go! Now! Get out of here! That’s an order, goddamnit!” 

He shakes his head, stands his ground. “No.” 

“Ross, I swear to God—“ 

He lunges at his brother, cradles his head with his hands, fingers grazing Dean’s cheekbones and lips. Dean tries to jerk away, a brief shocked look in his eyes, before his vision starts to get hazy. Ross leans in, putting their foreheads together, and he feels the dark power loosen and swell inside him. Dean’s eyes roll back in his head and he slumps to the ground, out cold. 

Ross leans down, brushes one hand tenderly over his brother’s cheek, quickly checking his pulse before he stands up again. He smoothes his hands over his shirt and walks towards the waiting demon. 

“Whatever he offered, forget about it,” he says. “You’re dealing with me now.” 

“Oh baby,” she says, “you're exactly what I was waiting for."


	31. Chapter 31

Sam stands in front of a mirror, or maybe a window. He’s not sure because that’s not his reflection looking back at him as it would be if this were a real mirror, it’s Ross. He blinks and Ross blinks back at him. He winks and Ross winks back at him. So, maybe it is some sort of mirror, a magical mirror. 

“I thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” Ross says. 

Sam makes a face at him, which Ross copies. “Stop doing that,” he tells him. 

“ _Stop doing that_ ,” Ross mocks. 

Ross is a teenager again, maybe around twelve or thirteen years old, and he’s wearing the costume they both had to wear for the production of _Lord of the Flies_ they were in during junior high. Ross has red lipstick gashes on his cheeks and charcoal around his eyes. He looks like a little savage, but that’s okay, because he’s supposed to look like that. Sam glances down at himself and realizes that he’s wearing the same costume as Ross. He touches his cheek and Ross copies him. His fingers come away sticky and red, and he stares down at them, seeing the way the red seeps into the lines and furls of his fingerprints. He glances at Ross again, who is also staring down at his own red-stained fingers. 

Ross raises his head and gives him an accusing look. “This is your fault.” 

“What do you mean?” Sam says. 

Ross rolls his eyes and makes a gesture between them. The glass of the mirror ripples like the surface of a lake. “Duh, _this_ , Sammy. You’re the one doing this freaky mirror thing, trapping me in here, like – like in that movie with the girl in the TV!”

“Poltergeist?” Sam says with a frown. 

“No, the other one, the scary one, with the girl crawling out of the TV. You know the one. You, like, totally pissed your pants when you watched it.” 

It’s both deeply and depressingly typical that even in this strange dream-like scenario Ross manages to be just as annoying as he is in everyday life. 

“ _The Ring_ ,” Sam says. “And you’re full of shit as usual.” 

“Whatever, man. Just ‘fess up. What did you do to put me here?” 

“I didn’t do anything!” 

“Jesus, keep your fuckin’ panties on,” Ross says, “I just wanna know what you did to my reflection and why I got to look at your stupid face every time I look in the mirror.” 

“Yeah, well, I’m not happy about this neither. Where the fuck are we anyway?” Sam says. 

Ross shrugs and stretches out his hand. The surface of the mirror ripples and Ross’s hand emerges through the glass. 

“Huh, cool effect,” Ross says. “You think I can come all the way through?” He waves his hand around, making rude hand gestures, ending up with his middle finger raised and that annoying smirk on his face. 

Sam sighs. “Quit fucking around, Ross.” 

Ross sticks his tongue out at him and beckons Sam forward. “Hey, c’mere.” 

“What? Why?” he says, but he does take a step closer, leaning in toward the mirror. “What are you doing now?” 

“Closer,” Ross says. 

Sam gives him a suspicious look, but he leans in closer anyway, close enough for Ross’s fingers to brush his forehead. Ross bops him on the nose with the end of his finger. 

“Rise and shine, Sammy!” 

 

** 

Sam awakes with a jolt. 

He’s in an unfamiliar room, he’s lying on a single bed, and he’s alone. He can feel his heart beating fast in his chest and cold sweat on his skin. It feels like he was having a nightmare, but he can’t recall it right now. Considering some of the things he dreams about, he figures that it’s definitely better that way. 

He sits up slowly, wincing at the pull in his tight, stiff muscles. He feels sore, like he’s been in a fight. His stomach aches with cramps, like he’s just thrown up, and he lifts up his shirt to peer down at himself. There are a couple of bruises on his torso, one high up on his right side, under his armpit, the other lower down, just to the left of his navel. He pokes them both gingerly then winces at the answering throb of pain. It’s nothing out of the ordinary for him, but he can’t recall right now where he got them. He can’t remember any fights---or not recently at least. His memory seems hazier than it usually does when he wakes up, but he knows the important stuff: he knows his name and date of birth and that he has two brothers called Dean and Ross. He knows that they’re hunters and they were on a hunt. He just can’t remember what the hunt was. 

He swings his legs to the floor, sits on the edge of the bed, and looks around. He’s in a bedroom with two matching single beds, the other one piled high with old books. There’s a dresser and a bookshelf with more old books, a desk in the corner and a chair. It’s all very normal and domestic, and he wonders where the hell he is. 

He gets to his feet and goes to the door. He’s half expecting it to be locked, but the handle turns normally, and he steps out onto a sunlit landing. He recognizes it immediately; he's been here before with Dean. It’s Ross’s mother’s place, the living quarters over the roadhouse bar. They spent the night here a few months ago, back when Ross had run away to go stay with Sarah, just after Dad died. 

The thought jogs something in his mind, and for a moment he's overwhelmed by the memories flooding back: Ross and Sarah and the Dallas Hilton, the demon, Ross possessed, Dean calling Bobby, and then leaving on his own to go after his little brother. He’d gotten here just in time to see the demon still wearing his little brother and about to kill that crazy hunter, Gordon Walker, and then... 

That’s it. There’s nothing else. He doesn’t remember what happened next. He doesn’t remember what happened to Ross. 

_“Oh my God!”_

He whirls around, arms going up instinctively to defend himself, but it's just a kid. It’s that teenage kid, Ross’s little brother, the one with the model airplanes, the one Dad took to baseball games and on fishing trips, the one that definitely isn’t a Winchester according to Ross’s mother, but still manages to look like one. He’s standing at the top of the stairs, clutching the rail and gaping at him. 

“But you - you..." 

“ _George!”_

Ross’s mom, _Angela_ , he silently corrects himself, emerges from behind the boy, moving around him on the stairs. She clamps a hand down on his shoulder and steers him around. 

“Go downstairs,” she tells him. 

The boy ignores her, still gaping at Sam, trying to pull his arm out of his mother’s grasp. 

“George,” she repeats, her voice harder. “Go downstairs. Go help Bobby.” 

Reluctantly George drags his eyes away from Sam and glances up at his mother. 

“It’s okay, baby, just go on now. I’m gonna talk to Sam.” 

The boy nods at his mother and clatters back down the stairs. Angela gives Sam a strained smile and says, “Sorry about that, it’s been a crazy couple of days. How are you feeling?” 

“Where are my brothers?” he asks. 

She hesitates and licks her lips. It’s a stalling habit that reminds him suddenly of Ross. His stomach gives another twist. 

“Please, just tell me. Are they dead?” 

She shakes her head. “No, no, Sam, they’re not dead.” 

He exhales and laughs shakily, feeling the hot tears well behind his eyes. “Good. God. I thought.” He breaks off, and pushes his hand through his hair. “God, what happened? With the demon and Gordon Walker? Is Ross okay? Is Dean.....he got here okay, is he okay?”

“They’re both okay,” she says. She’s still smiling at him, but it’s brittle and tentative, and when he glances down at her hands, he notices that she’s trembling. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. 

It’s a stupid question because she really doesn’t look okay. She looks on edge and nothing like the confident woman he remembers from the last time they were here. He can see close up just how exhausted and worn-down she looks under her make-up. She turns her head to look up at him, and he has another visceral flash of Ross, looking up at him with the same big dark eyes. 

“It’s been a crazy couple of days,” she says. “That demon - the one who took your brother - he was……Well, let’s say, he was no stranger to me. But enough about that. I don’t know about you, honey, but I could really do with a drink.” 

They take the same booth he and Dean shared when they ate those amazing burgers here six months ago. Angela seems to remember that too because she gives him a wry smile as she pours them two generous measures of Bourbon. 

“I remember watching the two of you play footsie under the table,” she says. “I could see how wrapped up you were in each other. It was nice.” 

He raises his eyebrows at her. “Nice? Never thought of it that way before.” 

“We gotta take love where we find it, honey. Life’s too short,” she says, and once again Sam feels that ripple of anxiety rock through him. 

He takes a grateful swig of the booze, feeling it burn as it slides down his throat to settle heavily in his gut. “Why aren’t they here? Where did they go?” 

“They went out,” she says. She takes a swig of her drink and rests the glass against her bottom lip. “And before you ask, I don’t know where. They were just…kinda antsy, worrying about you. They needed to get out for a while, clear the head. You know how it is.” 

“I guess. So, what happened to the demon? Is it gone?” 

She puts the glass down and sighs heavily before she answers. “We exorcised the sonofabitch.” 

“How?” 

“With an exorcism.” 

He frowns at her. There’s something he’s missing here. He touches the side of his neck, and immediately winces at the soreness under his fingers. The image of Ross’s face rears up in his mind: black eyes, spittle flying from his lips, a cruel, twisted sneer ripping apart the features he knows so well. He sees his brother raise his hand and squeeze his fist, grinning and revelling at the dark, demonic power, at the screams of agony wrenched from his own mouth as his insides grind together. Except it wasn’t Ross. None of that was Ross. It was the demon. 

“It was torturing me,” he says slowly. “I remember.” 

“It was trying to kill you, Sam,” she says. 

“But Ross overpowered it.” 

“Yeah, he did.” Her mouth twists again; this time her smile is faint and sad, but a little proud too underneath. “Long enough for him to get it back into the devil’s trap and for me to exorcise the bastard.” 

“Oh,” he says. He takes a sip of the bourbon. “Is that what happened?” 

“Yeah, you were already unconscious, honey. For a while there, we thought you were gone for good.” 

Ice flickers through his veins; he swallows before he raises his head again. “How long was I unconscious?” 

She takes another sip before she answers. He hears the glass chink back on the table. “It’s been two days.” 

“Shit,” he exhales. He leans back in the booth, grateful for the stiff leather behind him to hold him up. 

“Dean’s barely left your side. Until now of course. He’ll be so happy you’re back with us. So will Ross.” She drains the contents of her glass and sets it back on the table. “You should eat something. I’ll put some burgers on the grill.” 

They both look up when they hear the sound of heavy footsteps on the wooden floor. Sam’s pulse jumps and he starts out of his chair, expecting to see Dean or Ross, but it’s Bobby who appears in the middle of the bar. His heart sinks in disappointment but he forces a small smile, spreading his arms as he gets to his feet. 

“So, I’m back,” he says. Bobby doesn’t say anything for a moment, regarding him with a look that Sam can’t quite make out, the words echoing lamely in the tense silence of the bar. 

“So you are,” Bobby says at last. “George said something about you being awake again, but I had to come see for myself.” 

“Wow, was it that bad?” Sam says, trying for a jokey tone of voice. 

Angela laughs harshly and Sam swings his head around to look at her. She quickly forces her face back into an apologetic look. “Sorry. It's just that... Well, it wasn’t looking good there for a while, Sam.” 

“Oh,” he says. 

“How are you feeling?” Bobby asks 

He shrugs. “Sore, tired. But okay, I guess. I just want to see Dean and Ross. They’re okay, right?” 

Angela’s said so of course, but he’s still not sure if he can completely trust her. She might be Ross’s mom by blood, but she’s not Ross’s family. Bobby has known him most of his life, he can trust Bobby. 

“Still all kinds of stupid and reckless, but yeah, they’re okay,” Bobby says. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off Sam, and it’s making Sam feel a little uncomfortable. 

“Do you think they’ll be back soon?” 

“Son, I have no freakin’ idea, but if you’re at a loose end, then I got a funeral pyre to build.” 

“I can’t believe you’re going through with that,” Angela says. 

“You gotta honor your dead, and the guy was still a hunter, he doesn’t deserve to rot in the ground. Besides, you know what can happen if we don’t burn the remains.” 

Angela snorts and picks up the glasses and bottle and stalks across the floor to the bar. “Don’t expect any eulogies from me.” 

“Gordon Walker,” Bobby says to Sam, by way of explanation. 

“Oh, right,” Sam nods. “Yeah the demon... I remember that.” He can hear the sickening crack of Gordon’s neck, the gleeful demonic smile on his little brother’s face. He swallows back the roll of nausea in his belly and says, “Well, I got nothing else to do, so I’ll give you a hand.” 

The pyre’s almost built. The kid’s standing there, tossing the few last twigs and branches onto it when they emerge from the bar. He turns around and stares at Sam again, eyes narrowed in wary distrust. He steps away from Sam as he approaches and moves closer to Bobby. 

“Your mom won’t want you watching this,” Bobby tells him. 

“He’s already dead,” George says. “I saw him die.” 

“Yeah, you weren’t supposed to see that either,” Bobby says. He exchanges a look with Sam, shaking his head. The corner of Sam’s mouth flicks up. He recognizes that bullish stubborn set to the kid’s chin and the glint of defiance in his dark eyes - it’s exactly the same as the look Ross gets sometimes, and he knows that there’s no way the kid’s going back inside now. 

He watches Bobby thrust the burning branch into the piled up logs and twigs. The sun’s starting to go down, just beginning to crest the horizon, casting red and orange shadows around them. It’s beautiful but eerie, adding to the weird, anxious atmosphere that’s been lingering since he woke up. He blinks as the firelight scorches his eyes, the smoke making his eyes water. He thinks about his father’s funeral pyre, about helping Bobby to build it and then watching Dad’s body burn away to nothing. He remembers how lost and scared he’d felt at the time, Dad was dead and Ross was missing, and nothing seemed certain any longer. Except Dean of course, he’s always been certain of Dean. 

He misses Dean suddenly and fiercely, his body yearning for his brother’s closeness, for Dean to step up behind him and knock their shoulders together and put his hand on the small of Sam’s back in that familiar gesture of ownership. It feels like a long time since he’s seen him, which is ridiculous as he’s been unconscious for all that time, but he feels strange and out of place here, unmoored without his brothers’ familiar presence.

He knows that Angela isn’t giving him the whole story, and that Bobby too is keeping something to himself. It’s the same urgent feeling of wrongness he felt three days ago in the Dallas Hilton, only that time he knew that the wrongness was connected to Ross. He’d felt something come unhooked inside him, like a hinge coming undone, the connection between him and Ross - the freaky psychic twin thing as Dean likes to call it - damaged so he was unable to sense his brother at all. Not that he’d really been aware of sensing Ross before that; it was just an all encompassing overwhelming sensation of loss. It doesn’t feel like that now, but it doesn’t feel right either. It’s as if his brother’s been imprisoned behind a sheet of glass, like he’s on the other side of the mirror. 

The thought jolts something in his mind: the image of Ross’s bloodstained fingers sliding through the mirror and reaching for him, the pane of glass shimmering like the surface of a lake. He shivers and stares into the flames, feeling them burn and flicker across his vision, and he knows that something is dreadfully wrong. 

** 

The first blow catches Ross on the edge of his jaw, too fucking slow to duck. His teeth slam into his bottom lip and the salty, coppery taste of blood fills his mouth. 

“ _Motherfucker_! What the fuck!” he screams, ducking out of the way of Dean’s swinging fist. He raises his hand to his aching jaw, and spits blood on the ground, blinking at Dean through blurry vision. “What the fuck are you doing?” he yells at Dean. 

Dean doesn’t answer. He lurches forward, grabbing and snatching for Ross. He fingers punch into Ross’s muscles and he wrenches him around, his eyes wild and teeth gnashing like a rabid, crazy thing. 

“Stop it!” Ross screams again, trying to wrench out of his brother’s grasp. 

Dean’s fingers just dig in harder. He shakes Ross, and it feels like Ross’s fucking teeth are clanking together and his bones rattling. Dean looks savage, like, totally deranged, his eyes burning as he spits in Ross’s face. 

_“It was supposed to be me! God-fucking-dammnit! It was supposed to be me! Fuck you, Ross! What have you done? What the fuck have you done?”_

He pushes Ross away and stumbles to the ground, turning his back on Ross and bowing his head like he can’t bear to look at him. 

Ross feels his feet slip, his legs buckling underneath him as the earth rears up and his palms scrape the stones to break his fall. He kneels in the dirt and digs his fingers into the ground, feeling his chest tighten and breath come rough and panted. He thought Dean would be out for longer, that he’d be able to put Dean into the back of the car and drive them back to the Roadhouse – back to Sam. When Dean came around, Sam would be there, alive and well and smiling down at him, and Dean would be so fucking happy to see Sam that he wouldn’t ask these stupid questions, he wouldn’t get mad at Ross because Sam would be alive again and nothing else would matter. He should’ve known that Dean would never make things that easy for him. 

Dean’s still not looking at him, kneeling in the dirt with his head bowed, like he’s given up, and Ross aches to see what he's done to his brother. He can’t remember ever seeing Dean this angry before, especially not with him. Dean never gets like this with him. Not even when Dean found Sam lying dead in his arms, not even when Ross pawed at him, blubbering and weeping and begging for Dean to understand that he didn’t mean to, he was trying to destroy the demon, he didn’t mean to hurt Sammy. Even then Dean hadn’t looked like this, like he can’t bear to look at Ross. 

He watches Dean’s shoulders shake, his hands coming up to clutch at his face. “Why’d you do that?” Dean says, and it’s barely a question, just a choked up sentence. “Why, Ross? It was supposed to be me.” 

“No. No, it wasn’t,” Ross says. 

“Ross…” 

“Listen to me,” he pleads. He swallows the thick sourness at the back of his throat. He can still taste the demon on his lips and feel the faint tang of sulphur on his tongue from her kiss. “How long did she offer you?” 

Dean says nothing, just keeps staring dumbly down at the ground. 

“How long? How long was it, Dean?” 

“One year. Bitch wouldn’t give me the ten. She could see how much I wanted it.” 

He licks his lips and says softly, “Yeah, I thought so. One fucking year. What would you have done with that time, Dean? And what would me and Sam have done after you’d gone? What would we have done without you?” 

“I can’t just let him die. I can’t.” 

“Yeah, I know, I know you can’t. D'you think I can? D'you think I'm willing to just let Sammy die?” He brushes the hot tears out of his eyes. “But that’s a shitty deal.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“It does to me!” he screams, surging to his feet. He barrels into Dean and grabs onto his collar, yanking him up. Dean’s startled face flashes in front of his eyes, Dean’s hands moving to push him away. Ross grabs his brother’s wrist and tugs, pulling him off balance. Dean stumbles into him and Ross grabs his face. He frames it with both hands, bringing their faces closer. 

“But what about me? What about me, Dean? God, you can’t do that to me. And Sam said – he said you got to stop Dean, Ross, that’s what he said!” He releases his hold on Dean, and takes a step back, hands falling uselessly to his sides. Dean’s staring at him, unblinking, eyes wide in horror., “I had visions, dreams, whatever, I don’t fucking know, but Sammy was there and he told me what I had to do. I had to stop you, I was the one. This is what he meant. This, Dean. You know what deal I got: ten years. I got the full ten! And you know why?” Mutely, Dean shakes his head. “‘Cause they want me. They want what I got." He thumps his chest. “Here. They want this - whatever it is - they want it. They’re scared of me and that means we got all the cards. We can work this out, I know we can. That's a better fuckin' deal than what you got!” 

“Ross, no,” Dean takes a step towards him, “no, Littlest Bro, that’s not what Sam meant, he would never want that.” 

“And he’d want you to bargain away your life? Oh yeah, he’d be so fucking thrilled that you got one year left together before you go to hell ‘cause of him. Oh yeah, Sam would fucking love that! Jesus, you’re such a dumbass sometimes. He’d never forgive you. He’d spend all that time you have left trying to get you out of it. It would break him. This way,” he shrugs and spreads his hands, “he gets to keep you. You two get to be together, and I can… well, if one of us gotta die, it makes sense that it’s me.” 

“Ross, no, I would never let that happen. I thought you got that.” 

Ross shrugs; his chest feels like it’s bursting. He stares at Dean’s white, crumpled expression, at the tears rolling down his face unchecked. “It’s ten years. I’ll be thirty three when my time’s up. Could you ever picture me at thirty three? I ain't never gonna get there, man. Not in this job, or in this life.” 

“This isn’t about you dying, you stupid prick. You’re going to hell! You've gone and damned yourself forever. Don’t you get that?” Dean pleads. 

Ross shakes his head and pushes out a frustrated breath. “No, Jesus Christ, Dean, _you_ don't get. You aren’t listening to me - like always! I ain’t going to hell. No fucking way. I got no fucking intention of that. I’m gonna break those sonsofbitches instead. I’m gonna find a way to destroy every last fucking one of them. I can’t break the deal, but I can break them.” He heaves a breath, locking his eyes with Dean’s. “But, Dean, please, you gotta quit beatin' yourself up about this and help me out here, man! I can’t do this without you and Sammy, and that means… Well, it means that you gotta get the fuck over yourself and be okay with this. I know you got that fuckin' martyr complex and you think that it's always gotta be you, that you're the one who's gotta look after us all the fuckin' time. But I'm a big boy, I ain't just your kid brother nomore, and I can make my own damn decisions. I just gotta know..." he hesitates and slides his hand around to cradle the back of Dean's neck. "Are you with me?" 

Dean makes a broken, choked sound at the back of his throat and tries to shake his head again. "Ross, Littlest Bro..." 

"What?" Ross says. 

"Dean lifts his head and stares at Ross. "Fuck, Ross, you're always gonna be my kid brother. That’s never gonna change." 

His shoulders heave up and down for a beat and then he's grabbing Ross and pulling him in, wrapping his arms tightly around Ross to pull him in close. Ross exhales and closes his eyes, pushing his face into the crook of Dean’s neck and breathing him in deep. Dean feels just as solid and dependable and big-brotherly as he always has. There’s nothing to tell that Ross has just broken him. 

“You stupid little bastard,” Dean breathes, the words vibrating against Ross’s cheek. “You're not gonna die,” Dean says, voice hitching. Ross hears him swallow, and when he speaks again, his voice is stronger, more determined. “Listen to me: I won't let you die. That’s not fucking negotiable.” One of Dean’s hands drops to his head, his fingers card through Ross’s hair. “I'm not letting them take you." 

Ross closes his eyes and keeps holding on. 

Time passes and Ross doesn’t know how long they stand there, wrapped around each other. It feels like ages, but it’s probably not that long. He knows he has to pull away at some point. There’s Sammy to think about. If the bitch held up her side of the bargain, he’ll be waking up right now, wondering what the hell happened to them. Dean is still mindlessly patting his head, ruffling his fingers through his hair like he used to do when Ross was a kid, and as much as Ross is happy to let that go on for a long, long time, they really have to get moving. 

He sighs and pulls away from Dean. He bows his head to wipe away the sticky tears and looks at his brother. 

“You’re not going to hell,” Dean says again, this time more firmly and with that determined look on his face that reminds Ross of their Dad. 

“I got no intention of it,” he says. 

“Good.” Dean says. He turns and starts walking towards the Impala. Dean pauses by the driver’s side, lays his hand on the roof, and looks across at Ross. “Littlest Bro, we don’t tell Sam, okay?”

Another secret, always with the fucking secrets in this family. After all this time, they should've learned better. But it would be hypocritical of him to say that out loud. The decision he took kneeling over Dean's unconscious body only ten minutes before is still so present in his mind, the lie he concocted with the demon's rotten sulphur taste still lingering on his lips. He's lying to his brother even now, but it's okay, because Dean isn't ready for the truth yet and Ross is going to protect Dean until the day the demon comes for him. 

He should give Dean this at least - let him decide what they tell Sam. He already took away Dean’s big self-sacrificing gesture; he needs to give Dean the illusion that he’s still calling the shots. 

“You know he’ll find out anyway.” 

“Yeah I know. Just… not yet, okay? I want things to get back to normal first.” 

“Yeah, sure, normal.” 

Dean gives him a warning look. 

“Alright, whatever, we don’t tell Sam.” 

 

** 

The pyre’s almost burned down by the time the Impala finally pulls into the roadhouse, the sun disappeared over the horizon. Sam’s heart skips a beat at the familiar roar, and the flash and blur of the headlights over the side of his face. He turns his back on the smoldering fire to jog towards the car. The front doors lurch open in tandem and Dean and Ross spill out. Sam hesitates, glancing between them. Their expressions immediately light up, looks of complete wonder and relief flooding over them both that Sam can’t help but grin back, feeling the kind of ridiculous joy that he can’t remember feeling in a really long time. 

He throws out his arms and laughs, saying, “Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” 

Their faces fall in a way that is almost comical. Ross is the one who recovers first, and then he’s striding around the car and launching himself at Sam, throwing his arms around him and dragging him in close. Dean comes up next and hooks his arm around Sam’s neck, pulling him down into a kiss. Sam thinks briefly about Bobby and George standing and watching them, but Dean is close and alive and Ross is alive and Sam really doesn’t care right now. They’re all okay, he has the proof right here in front of him, and it’s a much better outcome than they could’ve expected, all things considered. 

“Dude, what happened?” Ross says when they finally break apart. “When we went out you were still all, like, unconscious and shit?” 

“I don’t know. I just woke up,” Sam says. 

Ross rolls his eyes, and exchanges a glance with Dean. “Wow, anti-climax, much. Trust you to be such a freakin' buzzkill about almost fucking dying.” 

“Shut up,” Sam tells him. 

“So, how are you feeling?” Dean says. 

“People keep asking me that, but I’m fine, seriously. I’m just…I guess I’m kinda hungry.” 

“Dude, me too,” Ross says. He jerks his head towards the sign outside the bar, the one that says: BEST BURGERS IN THE STATE. “Let’s go see if the sign lives up to its promises.” 

 

**

They pack up the next day, Dean and Ross making noises about getting out of there and getting back on the road. Sam stands on the landing and looks through the window at Dean and Ross standing by the car, smoking. 

“Will you talk to him for me?” 

He turns around. Angela is standing beside him, staring out the window at his brothers. She turns her head and looks at him; her mouth twists wryly and she shrugs. “I don’t expect miracles. I just want him to know the truth, everything I told you and Dean about the fire and the demon. I know now that I was wrong. I should never have listened to John. I should’ve gone with my own instincts. But your dad…” she breaks off for a moment and sighs, wistful and sad. “He knew Ross and I didn’t. He told me Ross was happy.” 

“He was, we were,” Sam says. Then he pauses, makes a face as he amends, “Well, as much as we could be. Considering.” 

She smiles sympathetically and nods. “Ain’t that always the case, honey?” 

They stand in silence for a moment, then Sam says, “For the record, I think Dad was wrong. He should never have kept you apart from Ross. That wasn’t fair, for him or you. If I'd ever found out that my mom was still alive…” he trails off, swallows hard. “I - I would want to know. I wouldn't care what she'd done, I'd still want to know her. Maybe I wouldn't be able to forgive her, but... I'd still want to get to know her. I’d want to have that choice at least. So, yeah, I'll talk to him. I'll tell him what you told us. He should know.” When he glances at her again he can see tears in her eyes, threatening to spill. 

"Thanks," she whispers, her voice choking up. 

He doesn’t respond, just keeps looking through the window. Ross and Dean seem to be fighting about something, Ross gesturing with his cigarette. Dean throws his hands up into the air and puts his back to Ross, stalking off to the back of the car where he pops the trunk and bends down. Ross tosses away the butt of his cigarette, shoves his hands into his pockets and walks back toward the bar, his shoulders raised and a scowling expression on his face. 

It's obviously time to get the hell out of here. Sam shoulders the duffle in his hand and turns back to Angela, holding out his hand. 

“Well, I guess this is goodbye for now.” 

She takes his hand. “Keep in touch.” 

“Yeah, okay. But I don’t promise anything.” 

Her grip intensifies and she tilts her head to stare up at him, her dark eyes wide and sincere. “You will forgive him, won’t you?” 

“Forgive who?” 

“Ross.” 

“What for? What did he do?” 

She hesitates, gaze darting back to the window, back to where Dean is now standing by the car, staring listlessly into space. She licks her lips, that delaying tactic again, the one that reminds him so strongly of Ross. 

“The demon. It wasn’t his fault.” 

“I know, I know that,” he says, a little exasperated and even insulted that she would ever think he would blame Ross for being possessed. 

“And wear those charms. Don’t take them off. Ever,” she adds. 

“Believe me, I have no intention of that," he says feelingly. If it’s one thing they have learned over the course of this entire sorry mess, it’s the importance of anti-possession charms. In fact, he’s been thinking about getting something more permanent done. 

She drops his hand finally and crosses her arms, hugging herself as she nods at him. “Good. That’s good, honey.” 

“Right,” he says awkwardly. He shifts and turns around, adjusting his grip on the duffle. “Well, okay. Thank you... for everything. And yeah, we’ll be in touch.” 

"Goodbye, Sam," she says. 

**

 

They’ve been going for about two hours when Ross finally speaks up. He's spent the last two hours intermittently scowling out the window and cracking his knuckles. Dean has been steadily raising the volume on the music to drown him out. 

_Sticky Fingers_ finishes and Dean shoves the box of tapes at Sam and orders him to pick something. 

“For the record, you two sons of bitches are totally not off the hook for lying to me about my mom.” 

Sam almost jumps at the sound of his little brother's voice. He drops the copy of _Disraeli Gears_ in his hand back into the box and looks up. Ross's tone is deceptively light, though Sam doesn’t miss the undercurrent of real anger underneath. He thinks about his uncomfortable conversation with Angela, and wonders if this is the right time to “try to talk to him.” He decides it probably isn’t. 

Dean alters his grip on the steering wheel and darts Sam an unreadable look. Sam decides to take it as his cue. 

“We were gonna tell you.” 

“Right. Sure you were.” 

“Yeah, we were,” Dean says. “It’s just that things… You know how things can go. Fucking demons and other shit.” 

“You had ages to tell me before then.” 

“Dad just died, we didn’t want you to get upset,” Sam says, feeling what a sorry-ass excuse it really is. They’re just as bad as Dad. Deciding what’s best for Ross like they have the right to keep something like that from him. He’d said to Angela himself: _If I ever found out that my mom were alive... I'd want to know._ And still, he and Dean had lied. “We were wrong about that. I know that now.” He can feel Dean glancing at him and frowning. 

“Yeah, whatever,” Ross says. “So nice of you to consider my feelings like that.” 

“Yeah well, you’re a big boy now, I figure you can handle it,” Dean says.

Sam gives him a surprised look, but Dean’s expression has gone hard, his eyes locked on the driver’s mirror where he’s looking at Ross. 

“So, do you want to keep in contact with her? I know she’d like to get to know you,” Sam says. 

Ross shrugs with one shoulder. He doesn’t look up at him, gaze still fixed out of the window. “Fuck, I don’t know.” 

“Whatever you decide, we’ll back you up,” Sam says. 

“Speak for yourself,” Dean snorts. Sam gives him a surprised look but Dean doesn’t elaborate. In the back seat, Ross is silent. 

“So what was all that about?” Sam demands as soon as they stop. Dean’s filling the gas tank, leaning against the car and idly watching the digits on the pump. 

“What?” 

“You know what. You being such a bitch to Ross about his mom. He was right; we shouldn't have lied to him." 

"We didn't lie." 

Sam heaves a frustrated breath. "Dean, you know what I mean. We didn't tell him. It's the same thing." 

"It's really not the same thing," Dean insists. 

"Okay, whatever. But we should've told him that she was still alive. He has a right to know.” 

Dean sighs irritably. “Dude, give it a rest. He’s dealing, let him deal.” 

“Dean…” 

“Not now, Sam.” Dean turns his back on him, shoulders raised, and Sam knows better than to persevere. 

Instead he leaves him to it, and wanders into the rest-stop after Ross. 

Things are weird between Dean and Ross. They’re constantly bitching at each other, sniping and making these little digs, and Dean seems to have developed this sudden mania for letting him make his own stupid decisions, which is so completely opposite to how things have been between Dean and Ross since, well, since the dawn of time, that Sam’s spidey sense is working on overdrive. 

He takes a shower, and when he steps out into the room there’s another uncomfortable silence. Dean is buried in Dad’s journal, again, (another weird thing: he’s been reading it back to back over and over again recently), and Ross is outside smoking. 

“Okay, so you gotta spill: what the fuck is going on between you two?” he says after a fight over pizza. Dean pitched a fit at Ross for getting olives on all the pizzas when Ross _knows, he fucking knows_ that Dean hates olives. Dean spent the last half hour painstakingly and dramatically picking the olives off all the pizzas and throwing them at Ross. 

“What the fuck you mean?” Ross snaps. 

“You two. You’ve obviously had some big fight ‘cause you’re acting like a bickering married couple. It’s getting seriously old. So spill.” 

Ross snorts. “Right, we’re keeping secrets from you. Makes a nice fucking change. You two have kept secrets from me for years. What’s your excuse for that?” 

“Jesus, get over it,” Dean says, thrusting the pizza box away with its half-eaten crusts, and getting to his feet. “I’m going for a smoke.” 

Predictably, Ross glares after him, and then gets to his feet and follows him outside. Sam watches them through the window; they’re standing by the car, and Dean is gesturing at Ross, smoking cigarette in one hand while Ross has his mouth open, yelling back at Dean. Ross finishes whatever he was saying, pivots on his heels, and strides across the parking lot back towards the room. Sam opens the door and crosses his arms, filling the entire doorway. 

“You’re not coming back inside until you tell me what’s going on,” Sam says to him. 

Ross narrows his eyes on him. “What?” 

“You heard. I want to know what’s going on. You’re not getting back inside until you tell me.” Over Ross’s shoulder, he can see Dean standing by the car, glaring at both of them and smoking angrily. 

“Sam…” 

“Ross. Tell me.” 

Ross huffs and worries his lip. He glances over his shoulder at Dean. When he looks back at Sam, he looks determined. “You died,” he says. 

“I…What?” 

“Back at - at the Roadhouse. You died. The demon - me - it was me. I killed you.” 

Sam blinks at him; he’s not sure he’s hearing this right. “Come again.” 

Ross pushes out a breath. “I don’t know how else to say it: you died, Sam. You were dead. For two days.” 

“But I’m not dead. How – how did I come back?” He stares at Ross, then drags his gaze away, looking past him, at Dean. Dean’s looking back at them and there’s something in his gaze, something in the slow way he starts to walk towards them – the walk of the condemned man - that rocks a shiver through Sam. “No,” he whispers, “no, Dean, please. What did you do? Dean, what did you do?” 

Dean halts beside Ross, his eyes on Sam, dark and desperate. “It wasn’t me, Sammy. I didn’t do anything, it was him.” 

“Ross?” Sam jerks his head towards his younger brother. 

“I made a deal,” Ross says. 

“He sold his soul,” Dean says. “To a demon. I’m sorry, Sammy.” 

“No.” The word catches in his throat. He’s read about this. Of course he has. Crossroads deals and selling your soul to the devil in exchange for your heart’s desire. But it isn’t true. It’s just an urban myth. 

There’s a lump at the back of his throat. He shakes his head, feeling his stomach twist and lurch and curl into knots. 

“No,” he whispers again. There are tears rolling down his cheeks, and he can’t even remember when he started crying. Dean and Ross are staring at him in horrible, awful symmetry. 

“Sam,” Dean says. He reaches out for Sam and Sam jerks backwards instinctively, stumbling over the doorway and into the room. 

“I don’t want this! I don’t want him to go to hell because of me! You should’ve left me dead.” 

“That wasn’t an option,” Dean says. 

Sam shakes his head and turns his back on them. He can’t look at them. He can’t think about it. 

“You’d have done the same thing, if it was one of us,” Dean says. 

He whirls around to confront him. “But it’s Ross! How could you do it? How could you let him?” 

“I didn’t _let_ him!” 

“He was gonna do it instead,” Ross says, “I had to stop him. He was gonna do it and he was only gonna get one year… one fucking year, Sammy! I had to stop him from doing it. That’s what you told me.” 

“I…what? No, I didn’t, what are you talking about?” He rounds on Ross. His heart is beating furiously, and underneath all this horrible, dreadful truth, he’s starting to feel angry. “I didn’t ask for this! I would never want this!” 

“I got ten years,” Ross says, and his voice sounds unnaturally calm as he stares at Sam, eyes wide and sympathetic, like Sam is the one suffering here, Sam is the one staring hell in the face. “Ten years before my time is up. That’s a long fucking time, man, especially for us. You gotta see that.” 

Sam stares back at him, shaking his head. “That’s so not the point.” 

“Yes it is! Just think, Sam, think about everything we can do in that time. We can change everything!” He grabs hold of Sam, and yanks him close, putting his hand on Sam’s cheek and turning his face so their eyes meet. “You and me, man. We can destroy them all, all those fucking demons, just like we destroyed that yellow eyed bastard who killed your mom and your girl. It’s all here.” He brings Sam’s hand to his chest, and presses it against his heart, twining their fingers together. “Right here. Do you remember what we did to that demon in my head?” 

“No, I don’t – I don’t remember." 

“It was gonna kill you! But we stopped it. Together. You and me. We killed it with the power of our fucking brains, dude! It killed you then – which was my fault and, like, a really fucking fucked-up side effect. But I think I know why that happened and I think that I might be able to change that next time. I’m getting stronger; I can feel how different things are now. And you’re stronger too. You must feel it, don’t you?” 

Sam shakes his head, uncomprehending. “I don’t know, Ross, I don’t…” 

“Yes, yes, you do. You know you do,” Ross insists, and his dark eyes are blazing in a way that’s reminding Sam of their dad at his most fiery and fanatical. He looks nothing like the punkass little kid Sam spent so many years bickering with, the needy little brother who yearned for Dean’s attention and Dad’s approval like they were the only things keeping him going. 

This is a different Ross, he thinks. This is the Ross who has powers that they know nothing about, powers that have twice killed powerful demons. Angela had all the answers about Sam’s powers, about Yellow-Eyes’ plan for him and all the other kids like him, about the fire that killed their mom and the tainted blood Yellow Eyes fed him. But Angela had no explanation for what Ross can do. 

_You will forgive him, won't you?_ she'd said, and he knows now what she was talking about. She'd known all along. She'd known that he'd died and that he should've stayed dead. He doesn't deserve to be here anymore, not when this is the price. Ross's soul. 

His stomach churns and he can feel the bile at the back of his throat, the lurch and ache of nausea and self-loathing deep down in the pit of his gut. He wishes he could throw up, to purge it all away. But even if he does, this one fact won't change... 

Ross is going to hell because of him. 

“Sammy, dude, please, you gotta be with me on this,” Ross pleads. He curls his fist in Sam's shirt and pulls him in so he's staring right into Sam's eyes. "Please," Ross says again. 

Sam shakes his head. He can't think properly, he can't get it right in his head. He's not sure what it is Ross even wants from him, he just knows that they have to do whatever they can to keep Ross safe, and if Ross is talking about them using their freaky psychic powers, then so be it. Whatever it takes. 

"Yeah, yeah, okay," he says at last. 

"Yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about!" Ross says and he flattens his hand on Sam's chest, splaying his fingers over Sam's heart. "What's in here, man. There's so much good shit we can do too. We're just scratching the surface! It ain't just about huntin' evil and killing bad things and saving people anymore! This is in us and it's going nowhere. It’s part of us whether we like it or not! So I figure we make the best of it! We quit fucking ignoring it like a pair of pathetic jerks and we fight back. We take the fight to them!" He pushes out a breath and turns his head towards Dean. "Deano, you too. You gotta be with us. We need you. It's gotta be the three of us or nothin'." 

Sam holds his breath, looking towards Dean. They're both waiting for the okay from their big brother, waiting for Dean to call the shots, waiting for him to tell them that it’s all okay again as he always has. 

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says finally. "Okay, Ross, you win." 

Ross's face falls a little, but he recovers quickly, pasting on his best shit-eating grin. "Damn fuckin' straight. And you'll see, man, you'll see how it'll be, Dean. We'll be okay, won't we, Sammy?"

Sam drops his hand to cradle the back of Ross's neck and watches Ross bow his head, lean forward into his body to drop his forehead to Sam's shoulder. He feels Ross exhale against his neck, feels the throb of Ross's pulse through his fingers. Ross did this for him. Ross sold his soul and bargained away his future. For him. Ross damned himself. For him. He never realised Ross cared that much. He never believed his little brother loved him that much. 

He swallows over the ache in his throat, feeling the tears slip free and roll down his face. He slides his hand up into Ross's hair, carding through it. It's longer than his own now, and it makes them look even more alike. He can feel Dean's eyes on them, and when he turns his head to look at his brother, Dean's watching them with tears rolling down his cheeks. 

"I'm sorry," Dean mouths. 

Sam bites his lip, nods briefly. He tugs at Ross's arm, getting him to raise his head again. 

"Hey," he says. "Hey, listen. I'm with you. Whatever you need. Dean too." 

"Yeah, course, ain't nowhere else we wanna be," Dean says, taking a step toward them and pulling Ross back against his own chest, wrapping his fingers around Ross's bicep. 

Ross turns his head to peer over his shoulder at him. "Really? You're gonna quit giving me crap?" 

"I wouldn't go that far," Dean says. 

Ross snorts and relaxes back into Dean."Shut up. Winchesters against the world, right?" 

"Right," Sam agrees. 

"Right," Dean echoes. 

Sam steps forward, dropping his hand to Ross's hip, pinning him there in between them, the three of them practically molded together, chest to back to chest. Ross presses his face to Sam's shoulder again and Sam looks up, meeting Dean's gaze for a fraction of a second. Dean schools his expression almost immediately, but he's not quick enough, and Sam's been reading his big brother for too long not to recognize what's there: not just the fear, but the resignation. They have no choice now. The fucking demons took that from them. They took Mom and they took Dad. They took him for a short while, and now they’ve gotten their hooks into Ross. 

Well, there’s no way Sam is going to let them take anything else from them. If it’s the last thing he does, he’s not going to let them take Ross. He’s not going to let his little brother go to hell because of him. 

The demons better start running because the Winchesters are coming for them.


End file.
